


Princess Charming

by NyxEtoile, OlivesAwl



Series: Tales of the Sisters Grimm [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Magic, sharon carter appreciation month
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-27 06:10:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6272905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxEtoile/pseuds/NyxEtoile, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OlivesAwl/pseuds/OlivesAwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I said, you're not gonna die." The man idly twitched his cuffs back into place. "And you're gonna go to the ball tonight."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Steve blinked. "Who are you?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"I'm your fairy godfather." He sketched a little bow. "You can call me Fury. Don't ask why."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"That's a strange name for a. . ." he trailed off. "Wait, Fairy what?"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The fairy tale retellings continue! This time it's Cinderella. Not the same universe as _The Wrong Rose_ though you will see Bucky and Amanda as side characters here.

Sharon was not, precisely, a princess. Oh, she was the granddaughter of a king and had been raised in grand manor estates and spent the winter holidays at the palace. But she was, at best, a countess and had been Lady Sharon most of her life. It was a comfortable existence, titled enough to never want for a thing, but not so important that she didn't have control of her own life.

That was, of course, before a rather grim streak of bad luck had gripped her family.

Her mother had died years ago, when Sharon was ten, giving birth to a son that didn't make it. Her father had taken it hard, turning to spirits and rich food for comfort. Such living, mixed with grief, didn't make for a long life and she found herself an orphan a year before coming of age. Her aunt and uncle had taken her in, having more than enough space in the palace.

Two summers later her two cousins - the heir and the spare - had gone to their hunting lodge and never made it back, victims of a carriage accident that had taken the driver and two grooms, as well. The servants’ families had received hefty pensions to help ease the loss.

The death of both his sons had given her uncle an apoplexy - he'd never been in the best of health, old war injury and all. He'd taken to bed and never recovered. And then it was just her and her aunt, the queen and the new heir apparent, left in the family.

After a year of mourning, Aunt Peggy decided enough was enough. The crepe was pulled down, the windows were open and she began to wear colors again, encouraging Sharon to do the same. She'd been quite happy at the signs of life, until she realized her aunt had a bigger plan.

"I am not a milk cow to be paraded at auction," she informed Peggy at breakfast once she'd announced her new scheme.

"It will really be the men being paraded in front of you, darling." Peggy smeared marmalade on a scone, quite unperturbed by Sharon's outrage.

"That doesn't make it better. I don't want to get married."

Peggy waved her spoon. "It will end in a betrothal at best. A wedding will take months of planning."

"Aunt Peggy!"

She pinned Sharon with an imperious glare. "I am not as young as I was, Sharon. If I go it will be just you, alone, to run the kingdom. Forgive me if I'd like to see you with a partner before handing down such a burden."

"He could turn out to be a tyrant, and that won't do the kingdom any good."

"Nonsense darling, I expect you to have much better taste than that."

Sharon frowned at her eggs a moment. "Who's going to be invited to this cattle auction?"

"All of the unmarried noblemen of our and neighboring kingdoms."

She drummed her fingers on the table. That had to be more than a hundred men. Take into account a portion would be old enough to be her father and she'd have a few dozen to choose from. "And if I don't like any of them?"

"We cast a wider net."

Well, at least she wouldn't be pressured to pick someone immediately. "And I get a new dress for every night of the festival?"

"You may have a new dress with each course of the meal if that inspires you to take this seriously."

"Taking it seriously might be a bridge too far. Can we settle for going along with it?"

Peggy buttered a roll and gave her a hard stare. "Does going along mean you'll actually give it a chance?"

"I will dance," Sharon replied, matching the stare with one of her own. "I'll talk to them. If I find one I like we can discuss betrothal. But I am not going to marry someone I don't want to spend my life with. No matter how worried you are."

"Terms accepted," she replied.

"Then we have reached an accord." Peggy nodded and Sharon dug into her eggs.

*

"You know, I have my own chores to do."

Steve leaned to peer around the large crate they were moving. "I know. Thank you. It's a two man job." That was a lie. Bucky could almost certainly lift the crate himself. That he left Steve retain the dignity of helping with his own chore was a gesture of friendship. His stepmother had told him to do it, even though she had to know it was beyond his not-exactly-ample strength. Secretly he wondered if she specifically gave him chores that might provoke a lung attack in the hopes that he'd die and she wouldn't have to deal with him anymore.

"I know, I know." Bucky shifted his grip on the box as they kept shuffling. "Not sure why Herself suddenly decided the barn needed rearranging."

"Fop and Meathead are getting new horses. They need more stall space."

When Steve was a young boy, his mother died. Some years later, his father remarried. His new stepmother had two boys of her own of a similar age. Though he'd been a sickly child confined mostly to bed, he'd looked forward to playmates. Instead they’d turned out to be spoiled brats who picked on him at every opportunity. A new baby had been born, a little boy. Then his father fell ill, spending many weeks in a delirious state. His stepmother made numerous visits to the castle during his illness, claiming she was taking care of affairs. After his father died, Steve learned she'd convinced or bribed someone in the government to have Steve's parents marriage declared invalid. He was suddenly illegitimate, and the entire estate passed instead to the baby, now the only legitimate heir.

She'd told him it was for the best. That he was sickly. He wouldn't live a long life, wouldn't marry and produce heirs of his own. The line would die and the estate revert to the crown. When he'd pointed out that when he died it would simply go to his brother, she'd told him that what was done was done, and he could live there in her home, or leave. 

He tried joining the army and was rejected. Then he got a bad lung infection that kept him in bed for half that winter. When he recovered, she presented him with an astronomical bill for his medical care and "upkeep" during his illness. He had been an indentured servant in his own home ever since. Every winter his debt grew.

Had it not been for Bucky and the smattering of other servants who had stayed on after his father's passing he would surely have gone mad or run away. As it was, they'd banded together to form their own makeshift family of a sort. He did his best to stay out of his step mother's way.

They set the crate down and Bucky stretched his back out. "I think that's the last of it."

The dust and molding hay made Steve cough. "Thanks, Buck."

His friend glanced at him but knew better than to ask if he was all right. "Let's get some fresh air and maybe a drink of water," he said instead.

He nodded as he tried to catch his breath. A few minutes later, he was sitting on the grass by the well, drinking cold water, and felt better. "Did you hear about the festival?" he asked Bucky.

"It's all anyone can talk about in town. Not to mention Herself is determined to get Fop and Meathead entirely new wardrobes for it. Like any princess in her right mind would chose one of them."

Steve swallowed some more water. "I want to go."

Bucky choked, coughing and spitting out some of his last drink. "Are you crazy?"

"No. It might seem that way, but no. Firstly, this might be my only opportunity, ever, to see the inside of the castle. They have amazing artwork in there. And second, I want to talk to the queen."

"You think she's gonna help you get away from Herself?"

"I think she's the only person with the power, at this point, to rule my parents' marriage as valid." 

He was silent a moment. "I don't think the queen talks to guys like us. With roughed up hands and a hole in the knee of our best suit."

"Admittedly, that's a problem. But I'm working on it."

"If your step mother finds out. . ." Bucky shook his head, not completing the thought. Steve supposed he didn't have to.

"It can't get worse," he said, even though he knew it could. She could make him keep working through his winter illnesses, for example. 

Bucky sighed deeply. "If there's anything I can do to help, I will. Just remember who your friends are when you get out of this place."

"If I actually get myself legitimized, I won't be going anywhere. _They_ will. I'll be a Lord, and I'll make you up a job where you don't have to do much but are still paid handsomely."

"I could be your manservant," he offered. "Keep you dressed fancy."

Steve laughed. "There you go."

"You got a plan? For getting into the palace?"

"Was thinking of trying to convince Herself to take me as part of her entourage. Like a manservant."

Bucky tilted his head. "You know, she might like that. Appeal to her petty nature."

"It's worth a shot."

It did not go smoothly. She laughed at him, which he probably should have expected. "Steven, please. We can be seen at the palace with a servant looking so. . . frail. People will think we can't afford to hire someone competent. And besides, don't you think it would be a little too strenuous for you?"

He grit his teeth. "Not unless I'm going to be carrying someone in a sedan chair."

She paused, as if contemplating it. "No, no. Too presumptuous. Still, I think it's best if you stayed here and managed the house in our absence. Keep the horses fed and the servants honest, that sort of thing."

He tried to adopt as subservient an expression as possible. "Please, I would like to go. Just to see the royal art."

Her mouth twisted up into a little moue. "I'll think about it."

He could do this. He could kiss her ass this once. "Please, My Lady. It would mean a lot to me."

Lips twitching as if she wanted to smile, she inclined her head. "If you keep up with your chores and mind your manners, I suppose you can accompany us."

His smile was actually genuine. "Thank you."

She nodded and waved a hand. "Since you asked so nicely."

"You are very generous," he said, the words bitter in his mouth. But she required groveling and gratitude with even the slightest kindness.

With a smile, she waved again to dismiss him. Probably best to back out before he got himself into trouble.

*

The down side to new dresses was the seemingly millions of fittings required. It was the morning of the first festival day and Sharon was once again standing on a footstool, patiently getting pinned for what would have to be a very quick alteration to be ready for the ball.

"Now try not to have any large meals today, your highness," the seamstress said, only partially joking, from the sound of it.

"Bread and water, I got it."

"You look very beautiful," Aunt Peggy said from the doorway.

Sharon smiled, meeting her gaze in the mirror. "Thank you."

"The reply rate was very high. I expect a packed house."

She wasn't entirely sure what to think about that. A larger pool to choose from was probably in her best interest. Still, she couldn't seem to muster up much excitement. "How many are geriatric?"

She came further into the room, to circle Sharon and inspect the dress."The invitation specified _young_ men, but there are at least a handful I remember dancing with when I was husband shopping."

"Perhaps their eyesight is going and they misread it." Sharon was relieved that made Peggy chuckle.

Peggy reached out to touch one of the little embroidered butterflies. "I'm never going to remember everyone's names, but my secretary, Newbury should have them all in that little pad of hers. Confer with her if anyone interests you."

"She'll be in charge of my short list, then?"

"Yes. She's very meticulous. And occasionally opinionated, though I think you appreciate that sort of thing."

"A second opinion can be a benefit," Sharon agreed. The seamstress fitted the last pin then helped her ease out of the gown, rushing off to do the finishing touches.

Sharon slipped into her day dress. "Is there anything I can help with? Menu finalizing or the like." It was going to be a very long day with nothing to occupy her.

"Relax, read a book, take a long bath. I want you in a good mood tonight."

She almost protested that she wouldn't be in a good mood if she was bored all day, but a nice long bath _did_ sound nice. "I suppose I'll see you this evening, then."

Peggy reached to clasp her hands. "Thank you. For doing this."

"You're welcome. I love you." She paused. "I still don't promise to find anyone."

"I know. But I do trust your word you'll try."

"I will." And she would. Some of them would almost certainly be abhorrent. But there was bound to be a decent dancer or two in the mix.

Peggy studied her for a moment, then nodded sharply. "Well. I have things to see to. I'll see you this evening."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll read happy romantic things to put me in the best mood."

Peggy raised an eyebrow, clearly detecting a note of sarcasm. But she didn't comment, just smiled and took herself out.

*

No matter what happened, Steve was absolutely never, ever becoming a manservant. After the third waist coat and fifth cravat he was ready to shove a length of silk down Fop's throat and let the hangman end his miseries. He supposed Bucky, who'd drawn the long straw and was dealing with Meathead, might help smuggle him out before anyone caught him.

It was all right. He could put up with it. He was getting to go the festival.

When both boys were dressed he hurried to the room he was sharing with Bucky to toss on his best suit and go meet the others before they left. Bucky had already made himself scarce, off to drink and gamble with the other visiting servants.

His step mother wrinkled her nose when she saw her. "Where do you think you're going?"

He watched her cautiously. "You said I could attend the festival."

"I said you could come _with_ us. I never said anything about attending the balls. Servants don't come to balls."

Steve frowned, not understanding. "I want to see the art in the castle. I don't expect to dance."

"They aren't going to let a servant wander the halls while everyone is celebrating."

Fop sighed dramatically. "Mother, we're going to be late."

She reached out and patted him absently. "Of course dear." She looked back at Steve. "The palace gallery is open to the public during the day. I'll let you have a few hours off to look around if you like."

The queen was not going to be loitering about the open-to-the-public, probably separate from the palace art gallery. His only chance of meeting her was in a crowd like this. But his step-mother and the boys were already walking for the carriage.

He jogged after them. Maybe he could sneak in, once they were past the gates. He could volunteer to watch the horses or something. "Can I at least--"

He didn't even get to finish the sentence, as Meathead turned and gave him a hard shove, knocking him backwards. Dust caught in his lungs and set of a coughing fit. As he wheezed he could hear the horses hooves and the rattle of the wheels as the carriage pulled away.

Steve sat in the dusty courtyard of what had once been his father's townhouse and fought tears. He could do this. This wasn't the end. He was within spitting distance of the palace. So what if they'd left without him and his best suit was ruined. He could still -

The train of thought was cut off by another coughing fit. It was becoming harder not to give in to self-pity. Maybe there was no hope. He was going to die here in the dirt.

There was the soft tap of boots on the cobble stone and he thought for a moment Bucky hadn't gone, or had somehow come back to help him. But when the boots stopped next to him they were shiny black leather, far nicer than anything Bucky owned.

A dark skinned hand dangled an ornate gold goblet in front of him. "You're not gonna die," said a deep, vaguely exasperated voice.

He took the goblet simply because he needed the water, and then looked up at the man, who was bald and wearing an eye patch. "Excuse me?"

"I said, you're not gonna die." The man idly twitched his cuffs back into place. "And you're gonna go to the ball tonight."

Steve blinked. "Who are you?"

"I'm your fairy godfather." He sketched a little bow. "You can call me Fury. Don't ask why."

"That's a strange name for a. . ." he trailed off. "Wait, Fairy _what_?"

"Fairy godfather. Not everyone's got one. And, admittedly, the god _mothers_ are a bit more common. But beggars can't be choosers, as they say." He reached into his coat - Steve had never seen one like it, soot black and hanging down to the man's ankles - and pulled out a slender wooden stick. "Shall we get started?"

Steve scrambled to his feet. "Am I hallucinating? I did that with a bad fever once."

"They always ask that," Fury muttered. "No. You're not hallucinating, it's not a dream. You've had the shit end of the stick for a while now. This is your big shot to fix that. The stars have aligned, heaven has smiled down and sent you me, to make all your wishes come true. We doing this or not?"

If he was hallucinating, at least it was entertaining. Might as well see where it went. "Maybe not in the courtyard?"

"Good point. I need things to work with." He squinted at the house with his one good eye. "This thing got a vegetable garden?"

"Around back. What happened to your eye?"

He started for the side alley and Steve had no choice but to follow. "There was a incident with a wand. Years ago, I was still in training. You don't want details."

Steve kind of really did, but it seemed rude to push. "So why do you need vegetables to get me to the ball?"

"Fruit and vegetables take magic the best." They came around the back of the house and Fury stepped over the low fence and started inspecting the crop. "I mean, you _can_ just create things out of nothing, but it's tricky work and half the time the magic gets confused and you end up with horsehair when you wanted a handbag. Pain in the ass, if you ask me." He nodded and turned poked an oddly shaped squash of indiscriminate heritage. "This'll do. Squash are the best. Stone fruit will go in a pinch if it's not overripe. You don't want to try tubers, though, that's asking for trouble."

He took a step back. "Right then. One ride to a ball coming up." He swished the little wood stick in an intricate pattern and pointed it at the squash. The air seemed to . . . shimmer a bit, then the squash started to grown and shift. Steve watched in astonishment as it grew and reformed itself into a carriage.

Fury seemed pleased with that. "I'd have gone with a different color, but what can you do?" He tilted his head. "Need something to pull it. . ." He crouched, scanning the garden. "Couple of good slugs but it'd take all night to get there. Aha!" He gestured wit the wand again. Steve had no idea what they'd started out as - some kind of insect maybe, or even small lizards - but in a moment there was a team of four horses hooked onto the carriage, pawing the ground in anticipation.

Fury turned back to him. "And the best part of magic horses? Don't even need a driver to lead them."

"Because that won't look weird and suspicious at all."

"You know as well as anyone that no one looks at servants. Not even other servants."

"They'd notice the empty seat. Doesn't matter, anyway. I can drive it."

The carriage was fancy enough a young lord might drive it himself, so Fury didn't argue. He did tilt his head to study Steve's clothes. "Now what to do about you."

He looked down. "I do need a new suit."

"You need a new body."

Steve looked back at him. " _What_?"

"How many times have you wished for bigger muscles and better lungs?"

"I'd like to be taller, too, but I don't think you can grow a human body out of eggplant."

Fury twirled his wand. "No, but I can make some adjustments. Magic is all about potential, kid. The squash has potential to be a carriage. And _you_ have potential to be much more."

Steve didn't know what to think of that. "And you'll make that happen?"

"Close your eyes," he replied and Steve obeyed instinctively. He expected to feel something, a tingle, an ache. But there was nothing. He was almost disappointed when Fury told him to open them again.

Fury had conjured a floor length mirror from somewhere. Steve didn't recognize the man he saw in it. He stared at the reflection, then looked around and realized his eye level was higher. He looked down at his feet to confirm they were on the ground, then back at the reflection. He was tall and broad, the way Bucky was. It was still his face, but his entire body was bigger. "How. . ?"

The man - fairy? - shrugged. "As I said, potential. You were sick as a baby and your mother had a rough pregnancy. Things happened that made you a bit smaller than you should have been. I fixed it."

"Permanently?"

"Ah. No." He gestured at the carriage and horses. "None of this is permanent. At the last stroke of midnight everything will revert to what it was. But! The festival lasts three nights. So you come back here tomorrow night after your awful family leaves then it'll all kick back in."

He looked in the mirror again. This was a man the queen might actually listen to. And after all, what did he have to lose? "Three nights, huh? I can do that."

"You better get going, then. Remember, midnight."

"Why are you helping me?" Steve felt compelled to ask.

"I told you, I'm your fairy godfather. It's what we do."

That wasn't much of an answer. But the clock was ticking. He eyed his carriage. "Well, thank you."

"Have fun," Fury said. When Steve glanced back at him he was gone, as quickly as he'd come. He'd ponder that later, he decided, climbing up into the driver's seat.


	2. Chapter 2

Sharon was becoming concerned she was going to spend the entirety of this ball in the receiving line. At least Aunt Peggy got to sit in her "everyday throne" while everyone and his brother was introduced. Sharon had to stand, smiling and nodding to the long line of faces and names that all began to blend together. Peggy's secretary, Newbury, stood just behind her, murmuring relevant information with every guest. 

The line was clogged with accessory guests—family members and hangers on of the bachelors. There was a young and very handsome blond man at the end, that Sharon had never seen before. She leaned over to Newbury. "Who's that one?"

Newbury adjusted her wire framed spectacles and followed her gaze. Then she frowned. "I'm not sure. I don't recognize him."

That was almost unheard of. Sharon watched a man another moment as the line crept forward. "Make sure I dance with him."

"I will make a note of it."

And so they slogged through the rest of the line. When it reached the young man he was announced as Lord Grant and bowed to her very sweetly. Inexplicably, Sharon felt herself blush.

He grinned at her with no artifice, a rare sight. "An honor, your highness."

"A pleasure to meet you," she replied.

The moving line swept him past her after that, on to bow before the queen. She watched him out of one corner of her eye as she greeted the next person. He smiled at Peggy with as much sincerity as he had her. Peggy seemed almost as charmed, which Sharon thought was promising.

After greeting Peggy he was swept off into the crowd. Sharon could not _wait_ for this line to be finished.

She'd discussed it with Newbury, and had decided that it was going to be necessary to forgo standard dance etiquette. If she let me ask her on a first-come, first-serve basis, where would probably be a fist fight, or she'd dance only with the most aggressive men. It really wasn't a trait she wanted to select for. So instead, Sharon would make the selection, and Newbury would inform the men before their dance.

When the line was finished, the three of them snuck through a back hallway to the ballroom so that they wouldn't need to move through the crowd. "How many did she earmark?" Peggy asked Newbury.

"Fifteen," the secretary replied. "I took the liberty of creating a second, B list, of politically advantageous men that would be worth a second look."

"Very proactive of you."

"I can hear you, you know," Sharon said mildly. 

"I should hope so," Peggy said. "We're right next to you. Do you mind if I look at the list?" 

She waved a hand and Newbury held it out to Peggy. They stopped under a lamp so she could peer at it. "Why does Lord Grant have a star next to him?"

"She was enthusiastic," Newbury said and Sharon felt herself blushing and glared at the other woman. Newbury didn't even glance at her, completely unruffled as usual. 

"It's a decent list," Peggy said, handing it back. "A good start."

"Who do you want to start with?" Newbury asked.

Sharon's first instinct was to say Grant, but the first dance was generally a reel and it was so hard to have a conversation like that. She glanced at the list. "Raleigh to start. I don't care about the rest but save the waltz for Grant."

She saw the ghost of a smile play around Newbury's lips. "Yes, ma'am."

They were announced into the ballroom. Sharon lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, braced for the next few hours of dancing and banal conversation.

Her first partner was mannerly and good looking. He made excellent small talk, and was a masterful dancer. But the entire experience was rather. . . empty. She'd really hoped there's be some thing beneath the surface, but no. Just a pretty face.

Newbury arched a brow when the dance was over and Sharon shrugged. The secretary made a note on her list and ushered over her next dance partner. That list was going to be a fascinating read by the end of the night.

By the third dance filled with empty chatting and overdone flattery, she began to contemplate if she could run this like an actual cattle auction. Line them up in their underwear—or less—and inspect them. Perhaps after they'd passed some sort of intellectual testing.

"I would of course run the kingdom," the current one was saying. "You shouldn't have to worry your pretty head with that. You can plan balls and buy lots of dresses and raise the children."

Because ending the dance early would cause more fuss than it was worth, she decided to play along. Smiling vapidly, she asked, "And would there be a lot of children?”

"Well, I should hope so. We'll want to make sure we have lots of sons, so this unfortunate situation doesn't repeat itself."

Oh she was going to stab him. This was the longest song in history. Finally, the last notes trailed off and she dipped a perfunctory curtsy to his bow and turned away. Catching Newbury's eye, she drew a finger across her throat. The secretary grinned and scribbled on her list.

Number 4 was actually a relief. He was shy and gangly, and to guess he was 17 was probably generous. But in line she'd heard his battle-axe of a mother lecturing him about how she was certain he was going to ruin his chance with the princess. She didn't know the kid, but she requested a dance just to shut that woman up.

It ended up being the first decent conversation that night, if a little one sided, as he told her about the areas of plant biology he hoped to study at university next year.

"It sounds like you have a great passion for it," she said as their dance wound down. "If you ever need a letter of reference please let me know. I hope to see papers published in your name sometime soon."

He blushed. "Thank you, your highness."

She curtsied to him and sent him on his way, wandering over to Newbury. The secretary handed her a glass of punch which Sharon downed in one gulp, wishing it was stronger. "I don't want to marry him, but I may adopt him."

Newbury grinned. "Shall I send the university dean a glowing letter of recommendation of royal stationary?"

She swore this woman was psychic in someway. "I think that would be nice, yes."

"Noted." She glanced at her list. "It's time for the waltz."

She felt herself smiling. She was looking forward to this.

"I should note," Newbury said, "That when informed, he said he 'didn't really dance'.".

"If his worst sin is stepping on my toes then he'll still be far ahead of the curve." She looked up and could see him moving his way through the crowd towards her. She smiled and he smiled back and she swore the entire ballroom just vanished.

"Your highness," he said with a very polite bow.

"My lord," she replied, curtsying. The music started and she reached for him, settling a hand on his shoulder as his curled around her waist. It was a very big hand and made her feel oddly small.

"I don't dance much," he said quietly, as the music started up.

"The waltz is easy," she told him. "Count in your head. Left-two-three, turn-two-three."

"Thank you," he said, and she could see his mouth moving as he counted through the first two turns, then he seemed to get it, and relaxed. Funny, a man of his rank not learning how to dance.

"I'm surprised we've never met," she said when it seemed like he had the rhythm down. "With you having a house in town."

"I'm not much for court," he said. "To be honest. I'm mostly here to look at your artwork."

She laughed a little. "You're an art lover?"

"I am. I dabble in it a bit myself, when I have the time."

That shouldn't impress her so much. But she'd begun to discover it was rare for men of the peerage to have hobbies. Other than shooting and planning how many babies she would pop out.

"I hope you get time to visit the galleries, then. They are impressive. I love to spend my free time wandering the halls."

"What else do you do? In your free time?"

"I read a great deal. I do some embroidery. My Aunt is teaching me economics and political strategy. And I've recently discovered an interest in plants."

"I imagine running a country is not for the faint of heart."

"No," she said. "There's a lot to learn, and remember. It's very intimidating."

He swung her gracefully through another turn. "Every expert started out knowing nothing. You'll get it."

He didn't know her, there was no reason his confidence in her should warm her to the core. Maybe it was just hearing it from someone outside her little sphere. "I hope so."

"People will probably underestimate you. But there's a tactical advantage to that, if you do it right."

She grinned at him. "Aunt Peggy says the same thing."

Sharon couldn't imagine what this man knew of being underestimated, but she sensed somehow he did. He was a bit of a mystery, wasn't he? "I'd expect a husband to be more of a distraction than a boon," he was saying. "At least at the moment."

"Possibly. I imagine it depends on the husband." She studied him. "We're alone in the world, me and Aunt Peggy. She worries about what what would happen to me if she died. I'd be easy prey to a certain type."

"I can't picture you as anyone's prey."

Oh, she really did like him. "Grief does funny things to people."

A shadow crossed his face. "That I believe."

"You've lost people." Obviously, to have his title, his father must be dead. But for some men that wasn't really a loss.

"I've lost a lot of things." He looked like he wanted to say more, but the song was coming to an end.

For the first time, she was actually disappointed at the end of a dance. "Could we share another dance?" she asked. "Later?"

He smiled. "You are the owner of the schedule. But I'd like that."

"Good. I'll send Newbury for you."

He bowed once again. "Your highness."

She watched his face as she curtsied and her gaze followed him as he disappeared back into the crowd.

Newbury appeared at her elbow with more punch. "As good as you'd hoped?"

"Even better," Sharon told her.

*

Steve backed through the crowd and melted back into the shadows. He'd just danced with the Princess. He'd _danced_ , which was a not a skill he was aware he had. Maybe it had come with the new body. Or maybe he'd been so distracted he hadn't had a chance to mess up. 

He hadn't expected the Princess to be so. . . interesting. Admittedly, his impression of nobility was somewhat tainted thanks to Herself and the boys. But he'd always assumed royalty - young female royalty, anyway - would be rather more interested in gowns and shoes than economics and plants.

He probably shouldn't have done something so noticeable as dance with the princess. Herself was here, and he could have been recognized. But the princess's secretary hadn't really given him the option to say no. Anyway, it would make for a good story for Bucky. If Bucky believed any of this.

Right. Okay. He needed to find the Queen; figure out someway to get an audience with her. He had a mission.

"Lord Grant."

He jumped, and looked down to see Miss Newbury standing next to him. She'd been very silent. "Hello."

"Her highness greatly enjoyed your dance. Would you be available to escort her to supper?"

That didn't seem like something he should say no to. And actually, the idea of sharing a meal with her sounded wonderful. "I would be honored."

Miss Newbury smiled. "Excellent. I'll come find you when it's time." She glanced down at the paperwork she held. "You have a few more songs."

"I'll be ready, thank you."

She nodded and disappeared back into the crowd. Steve could see the princess out on the dance floor with some other man. She was smiling, but he could tell even from here that it didn't reach her eyes. He had things he ought to be doing, but instead he stood and watched her dance. He didn't know her, but his gut told him she deserved better than the grasping and greedy man she'd probably end up with.

Maybe it was good she was looking now, rather than waiting for tragedy to strike. Hopefully the queen would let her take her time and choose wisely. Find someone she could live with. Steve had seen first hand what a fast courtship could lead to.

The Queen. . . he looked around and saw her at one end of the room, on her throne, flanked by servants. He sighed. Sneaking in for a meeting might not be as easy as he'd hoped. He did have three nights, though. And perhaps striking up a friendship with the princess would end up being helpful. Assuming he could get through dinner without making an ass of himself.

He roamed the ballroom as the others danced. There was art here, though nothing rare or terribly expensive, as so many people came through. It was still far nicer than anything he'd ever seen before.

After several songs, Miss Newbury appeared at his side again. "The next dance is yours. Afterwards the doors to the dining hall will open and you'll escort the princess to the meal. She'll guide you to the proper seats."

Seemed like something he ought to know, but he appreciated Newbury not mentioning that. "Thank you."

She studied him a moment and he had a vague, panicked feeling that somehow she knew he was a fraud and would out him. But she just smiled enigmatically and melted back into the crowd. He squared his shoulders and walked towards the princess.

The grin she gave when she saw him coming. She reached out for him as he reached her. "You are a welcome reprieve."

He returned the grin. "What with my poor dancing and lack of polite small talk?"

"I have had enough polite small talk in the last couple of hours to last me a lifetime. I'm hoping you'll regale me with art information. Or politics. Or architecture. Anything."

"What sort of art information would you like to hear? And would any of it get me a look at your _real_ collection?"

"I'd like to know your favorite kind of art. And I'm afraid my schedule this evening is rather packed."

"I like oil paintings," he said. "It dries so slowly, you can capture amazing detail. Portraits look almost life-like."

"I've been informed I'll be having a portrait done once I'm engaged."

"Why not do it now?"

She blinked, as if that hadn't occurred to her. "I don't know. I suppose they want my husband in it."

"I can't fathom why you need a husband for a portrait. You should have one just for yourself."

After looking flummoxed another moment, she stiffened up her chin and nodded. "I think I will."

He grinned at her. "Now you're starting to sound like a queen."

"I think you're good for me," she told him.

It was startling, to hear someone like her say that. Particularly since his stepmother constantly told him he wasn't good for anything. "I'm just being honest."

"Honesty can be a rarity sometimes. Especially for a princess." The music started to fade and she smiled as they twirled to a halt. "I find it refreshing."

He offered her his arm. "I hear I'm escorting you to dinner."

She tucked her hand into his elbow. "You are. And as such you'll sit next to me, so we can continue our chat."

"Won't your suitors be disappointed?"

"Not all of them," she said with a little smile.

He sighed a little. She thought he was one of those suitors. He wasn't. He _couldn't_ be. He knew he should tell her, but the words wouldn't come out of his mouth. Instead, he steered the conversation to a different topic. "Will you rule differently when you're queen?"

"Different than Peggy has?" She tilted her head, considering. "Somewhat. I'd like to think I'm more progressive. I'd like to open up education and schooling, so those in the poorer classes have access to it."

They walked into a huge dining hall filled with candles, more candles than he'd ever seen. "You should do something about the de facto slavery, too."

Even her frown was pretty when she looked up at him. "Slavery?"

At the foot of a very long table was a seat for her, and him to her left. There was an intimidating amount of cutlery. He busied himself with pulling back her chair. "It's how most of the nobility gets away with not really paying their servants, and being able to treat them terribly because they can't leave."

"That's terrible. Servants at the palace are paid a fair wage and given time off regularly." The princess watched him sink into a chair. "Is this a common problem?"

"I'm not entirely sure. I expect so. Certainly, it's legal. The way it works is the servant is given a debt, for all sorts of things. Perhaps some aspect of their upkeep, something accidentally damaged or simply worn out, like old linen that doesn't survive one last wash. The amount is more than the servant can reasonably hope to pay off given their wage, and is backed up with the threat of debtors prison." He picked up one of his forks, and then found himself pointing it at her. "The idea that you should go to jail—where you can't work—until you pay a debt that you already couldn't pay when you _could_ work has to be an idea concocted by someone who has never had want of anything and never done a day's useful labor in their life."

She had been listening very intently, and with obvious interest. When he started waving the fork around she reached out idly, took it from him and replaced it with a spoon just as butlers filed in carrying trays of soup. "I agree that debtor's prison is self defeating," she said. "And the debt system in general is flawed. But it would be a difficult change to make. As queen, I can simply announce that all servants had to be complicated at that debtors prisons be closed, but getting nobles - especially those who have been profiting on this - to change their ways isn't that simple." She paused while they were served their soup. "Do you think the crown offering more options for the servants themselves would be a useful first step? Perhaps a way to have their debt bought off."

"Selling debts to moneylenders is only going to make it worse. At least the nobles have some vested interest in keeping their indentured servants alive and well to keep serving. Moneylenders are just as like to take everything you have, beat you up for the balance, and hope you die before the authorities notice."

"I was thinking more along the lines of the Crown paying off the debt in return for something." There was a flurry of activity as people began to eat and Sharon took a thoughtful sip of her soup. "Perhaps it could be linked to the education. Wiping out of debt and the offer of education so that they can move to more advantageous work."

He was amazed this was actually getting traction. "That's not a bad start." 

"It benefits everyone. We get a better educated populous. Abusive employers risk losing their staff. And those who are more progressive get happier, more competent staff." She smiled. "My advisors will hate it. I love it."

Steve grinned. "I'll wait until tomorrow to start on my other radical progressive ideas."

"Oh, please do. I'm new at this.

"What would you have done with your life if circumstances hadn't been as they are?"

She studied her soup a moment. "I had hoped to go to university, perhaps find some sort of intellectual pursuit that would fill my time. I was a lady, so I would likely have still needed to marry. But there would have been less pressure and more freedom in the meantime."

"I had no idea they let women go to university. I don't mean that in a bad way."

"It's rare and classes are limited. And I'm told it there can be unfavorable reactions from the male students. But it's not unheard of."

"Being heir to the throne would probably cut off most of the unfavorable reactions."

"That's true. I don't know if I could trust my instructors to treat me fairly, though."

He paused to finish his soup. "Nothing in life is fair."

When he looked up he found her watching him. "No," she said quietly. "I suppose not."

Steve offered her a smile, not wanting to take the conversation somewhere dark. "Thank you for asking me to sit with you. This is more fun than I think my randomly assigned seat mate would be."

"Well, I like to think so." She placed her spoon in her empty bowl and folded her hands. "Do you have plans for tomorrow? I think I might had some time for the gallery tour you were eager for."

"During the day?" During the day he wouldn't look like this. She probably wouldn't even recognize him.

"I'm told that's the best time to see art. What with all the light."

How he wished he could. "I can't during the day. My days are rather packed." With stupid chores, but he couldn't exactly tell her that.

To his relief,she nodded in understanding. "Well, perhaps we can play hooky during the ball tomorrow." She glanced at him. "You will be coming tomorrow, yes?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

She smiled widely as the servants entered with their next course. "Well, then I have something to look forward to."


	3. Chapter 3

"I suppose I don't need to ask if anyone in particular caught your eye."

Sharon gave her aunt what she imagined was a rather silly smile. It was quite late and they were lounging about Aunt Peggy's private quarters, stripped of their finery and bundled up in plush robes. Her feet were aching and she was caught somewhere between exhausted and wound up. Peggy had ordered them some hot cocoa and cookies to nosh on before stumbling to bed.

"Lord Grant," she admitted. "Was very engaging."

"Quite dashing as well. And yet I have no idea who he is."

"He likes art," Sharon told her. "Is concerned about the plight of the working class. And appears to have forgotten everything he was taught about table etiquette."

"Maybe he's a spy. No—a spy would have good table manners."

She loved that that was the first place Peggy went to. "I don't think there's anything nefarious about him."

"But he is a mystery. I should have him looked into."

“Oh, not yet," Sharon said. "Give me at least one more night of mystery."

Peggy gave her a look. " _Then_ I can have him looked into?"

"Yes. If I still like him in twenty four hours you may set your hounds on him."

"Deal."

Sharon yawned and stretched. "I should get to bed."

"Good night, darling. Have lovely dreams."

Standing, Sharon knew she was smiling again. "I'm sure I will."

She slept well into the next morning and didn't regret it at all. Lunch was a casual affair with her aunt, who had also slept late. Then it was time to get ready for the second night of the ball. Last night's dress had been white with embroidered butterflies. Tonight's was red with roses. Peggy raised a brow at the color, but didn't comment.

Tonight, at least, they were able to skip the formal receiving line, which meant Sharon actually got to eat some of the appetizers as the guests were arriving. People were still announced in, and she had a particular name she was listening for. It was the _only_ name she was listening for.

Newbury was starting to pester her for her dance list when she finally heard "Lord Grant" echo across the ballroom.

"Him," she told the secretary. "All of them for him."

"Might I suggest there's something to be said for not showing all your cards in one hand?"

"You can say that because you didn't dance with any of these idiots last night."

"It's a very public declaration," Newbury cautioned.

Sharon blew out a breath. "Aunt Peggy seemed rather adamant I end this festival with a fiancé. I didn't know I had to be coy while I picked him."

"I don't know that. . ." Newbury cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, you don't need my opinion. All of the dances it is."

"Thank you." She felt vaguely guilty about putting the other woman on the spot, but she saw no point in toying with other men. None of them had interested her the way Lord Grant had.

Newbury ducked away, she assumed to go retrieve her escort. Sharon watched the crowd. She couldn't exactly admit it to her aunt's secretary, but she had no intention of dancing all those dances she'd booked out. They had better things to do.

She greeted a few of her friends as she waited for him to find her. She swore she knew he was there before she saw him, felt the heat of awareness skitter across her skin. Then she turned, and there he was, as immaculately dressed as he had been the night before. And just as handsome.

He bowed. "Your highness."

"My lord." She dipped a curtsey that would have sent her deportment tutor into a faint and stepped closer to him. "It's very good to see you."

He smiled down at her. "I hear you've requested quite a number of dances."

"It was the best way to completely monopolize your time."

"Will we. . . actually be dancing all those dances?" He sounded rather disquieted by this prospect.

She crossed her hands in front of her. "I thought you might like to start with a tour of the gallery."

The grin that crossed his face was worth it. "Now that sounds like fun."

After a quick glance to make sure Peggy and Newbury weren't looking. Then she caught his sleeve and tugged him towards the side doors. He was silent until they reached the hall. "Are you going to get in trouble?"

"What are they going to do? I'm too old to ground."

"There are all _manner_ of punishments in this world," he replied as they started down the long corridor.

"Aunt Peggy once threatened to deny me the crown and live forever but as I'm not precisely chomping at the bit to be queen, it rather backfired."

"Immortality. That's a good one."

They had to go through several darkened parlors and empty halls before reaching the private gallery. He had to help her push open the tall, heavy doors and then it stretched before them. A long, rectangular room lined with countless paintings and dotted with sculpture.

He exhaled, and his mouth opened as he walked slowly into the room. She'd never seen such reverent wonder on someone's face. She had been in this room dozens of times. She liked art, had a few favorite paintings and sculptures. But she had never looked at it the way he was now. 

She followed him around as he explored, quietly watching him more than the art.

"This is amazing. How do you not come here every day?"

She grinned. "I think if I did it would be lost on me."

"Nonsense. Art is for everyone to appreciate. And considering this is locked up here away from nearly everyone, the person who _can_ come down here should."

Looking around the pictures as if she'd never seen them before, she said, "Tell me about them."

He took her around the room, explaining what he saw in each work, both in in meaning and interpretation, and in the technique the artist had used. It was enthralling, both because what he said was interesting, and because he was so animated and passionate about it. 

"I used to climb on this," she told him when they got to the large statue of a knight on a horse. "When we would visit the palace when I was little."

He tipped his head back. "How's the view from up there?"

"Pretty good. Sir Smithy and I had a lot of nice adventures while the adults were being boring."

His grin was brilliant. "Sir Smithy?"

"I was five," she said defensively. "I think the artist's name was Smith. Or maybe I'd heard them mention an art smith or marble smith."

"No, no, I like the name." He looked around with a happy sigh. "Thank you."

She shook her head. "No, thank you. This was like seeing it all for the first time."

"We probably should at least put in an appearance at this party." He didn't sound all that enthusiastic about that, but he offered her his arm.

Rather than take it, she wrapped a hand around the foreleg of Sir Smithy's horse. Putting a foot on the low base, she used her grip on the horse to pull herself a up a little. Which put her at just the right height to kiss her lord. He stilled, surprised, and then his arms came around her and the kiss took off. He was strong enough to support her weight, so she could wrap her arms around him, too.

She kept her one foot on the statue's base, the other dangling. She sank the fingers into his hair, letting the kiss turn deep and borderline inappropriate. It was absolutely magic. She had no idea it could feel like this with a man, with just a kiss.

In the city, the church bells began to chime. He jerked back, breaking the kiss abruptly. "What time is it?"

Confused, she looked over the back of the horse, through the window, at the clock tower. "Twelve."

He leaned to look himself. "Huh. I can see that." She had no idea why he sounded so surprised. Then he looked back at her. "I'm sorry. I have to go."

She blinked. "I- what? Why? It's only midnight and we haven't-"

"I know. I'm sorry, but I. . ." he glanced at the clocktower and looked miserable for a moment. "Trust me, you want me to go." 

"I really don't." He had started backing towards the doors and she followed him, utterly baffled. "We didn't dance. And I was going to introduce you to my aunt."

That seemed to only intensify the grief on his face, it was almost painful to look at. "I'm so sorry." The clock hit its seventh chime, and he took off at a dead run.

Shock froze her for a moment. Then she hiked up her skirts and went running after him, dance shoes skidding a bit on the smooth floor. She lost him in the halls, though, and by the time she reached the ballroom there was no sign of him.

Newbury materialized at her side. "There you are."

Blinking back unwanted tears, she took a breath. "Was my absence noted?"

"Her Majesty has been making excuses for you all evening," she replied by way of confirmation. "Though she looked rather delighted to be doing so. We saw you slip out."

Of course they had. Sharon had never gotten anything past her aunt. Why would she start now? "I showed him the gallery."

She glanced down the hall. "Did you leave him there?"

Sharon shook her head. "He had to leave. Rather abruptly."

Newbury touched her arm gently and said, "I'm sorry."

Shaking her head again she mustered up a fake but passable smile. "It's all right. I'll yell at him quite thoroughly tomorrow night." If he showed up, of course.

*

"Do you have a fever?"

Steve swatted Bucky's hand away from his head. Telling him had clearly been a mistake. "This is not delirium."

"You've come up with some wacky stuff when you were sick enough."

"I will hit you with this shovel." They were digging up trees, because Herself wanted the trees lining the drive moved.

"Hit me in the head and maybe I'll believe you."

"Fine," he said with a sigh. He couldn't sleep last night; all he could see was the Princess's confused, hurt face. He didn't know what to do about this whole mess, and he needed to talk to someone. But he didn't have the emotional energy to argue. He was too exhausted, in just about ever way. "Forget I said anything."

Bucky stopped and studied him a moment. Steve ignored him, shoveling with extreme prejudice. Finally, he said, "Hypothetically. If I believed you. What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know. It was supposed to just be a means to an end. The Princess. But she. . ." He struggled for the words. Many came. None came. She made him feel impossible things. "It's different."

"Tonight is the last night of the festival. Whatever you're going to do seems like it has to be tonight." Bucky paused. "Do you think the magic works if someone's watching?"

"I don't see why not. God knows people see me at the ball." He leaned on his shovel to catch his breath. "Why?"

He shrugged. "My best friend's getting turned into a lord, seems like I should get to see it at least once." He took his turned digging. "Though it sounds to me you could upgrade to Prince if you played your cards right."

"Yes," he said dryly. "I'm sure she'll fall all over the real me." It was a little too honest, and it pricked him.

"Does her highness strike you as particularly shallow?"

"Attraction is very particular," he said with a sigh.

"I'm just saying, there's got to be other lords and princes at the ball who look as good as you do but you're the one she danced with and ate with and showed art to. So maybe it's more than good looks that have her interested." Bucky buried the spade of the shovel into the pile of dirt and bent to start rocking the tree out of its hole. "Maybe you're not giving her enough credit."

Steve ground his teeth. "It's very easy to suppose shit like that when you look like you."

Bucky didn't reply, mostly because this was not the first time they had had such a conversation. He busied himself with the tree and Steve glared at nothing in particular for a few moments. 

Then Bucky said, “So, back to your original plan. Get an audience with the queen and plead your case?"

"Yes. Assuming he Princess is still willing to introduce me after I sprinted out of there in the middle of kissing her." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. He'd left certain details out.

The silence beside him was deafening.

"You. Kissed. The Princess?"

He sighed. "Technically, she kissed me. Well, she kissed Lord Grant."

"Steven, you are a terrible story teller." He slapped him on the back, making Steve rock. "That's an important detail, dontcha think?"

He coughed at the force of the slap. "A minute ago you thought it was a fever dream."

Bucky paused, then said quietly, "I don't believe you'd dream yourself something that nice."

Steve looked over at his best friend, and shrugged, not really wanting to admit the truth in the words. "Well, it wasn't really me."

"Maybe it is." He shrugged. "Maybe it's you with your outside matching the inside."

"Doesn't help much in the long run, does it?"

"I suppose not." Bucky sighed. "Did you enjoy it at the time, at least?"

He closed his eyes. The art. The conversation. Her fascinated attention as he explained various techniques of the art he loved but could no longer afford to practice—paints were expensive. Her scent and the way her body felt pressed against his. Her laugh and the dance and her taking his various peasant complaints seriously. His voice sounded rough even to his own ears when he said, "I did."

"Is that going to be enough?" Bucky asked gently.

That made Steve laugh, even if there was a bitter tint to it. "When has 'enough' ever been attainable?"

That evening he saw Herself and the boys off and went to the back garden. He didn't know if he had to be there for the magic to work, but he didn't feel like messing with it at this particular juncture. Bucky met him back there, eyeing the squash suspiciously.

"What if I ruin it?" Bucky whispered.

"Just wait," Steve said. He didn't know why he had such faith, but he did.

They both stood there, all but holding their breath. Then the air seemed to shimmer around them and Steve smiled just as the squash started to stretch and twist. He closed his eyes like he always did, and when he opened them, he and Bucky were eye-to-eye.

His friends mouth was hanging open in shock. "Holy shit." He shook his his head as if to clear it. "Does that hurt?"

"Not in the least."

Bucky shook his head again. "That's amazing." The carriage and horses had manifested as well, and Bucky turned to stare at that, too. Then he looked back at Steve. "If I were a Princess, I'd kiss you, too."

He rolled his eyes. "Thanks."

"Are you ready for this?"

"I've gone to the palace two nights now," he said, straightening his cuffs and walking over to check the carriage.

"This time you've got to deal with a probably pissed at you princess." Bucky held the reigns as Steve climbed into the driver's seat. "One way or another, your life is going to change tonight."

"There is that non-zero chance she freaks out and I end up beheaded."

"That will certainly change your life."

Steve took a steadying breath. "Don't suppose you want to come along? Man the the getaway carriage?"

He grinned widely. "Hell yeah. Move over."

He handed Bucky the reins and climbed around into the carriage itself, which he'd never been inside. It was quite nice in there, though it did smell a little bit like vegetation. "We'll get you a better job if I get the estate back," he called up front.

"I'm not helping you get dressed," he called back.

The carriage pulled out of the garden, and once they were out in the lane, he leaned out the window so he could talk to Bucky. "You know, I have no idea what this body looks like undressed. It's kind of come with its own clothes." He could tell by the smirk visible on the half of Bucky's face he could see what was going to come out of his mouth next, and he cut it off. "Yes, I've pissed, that part is the same."

"I would hope it would be proportional or the Princess is gonna be awfully confused."

"What makes you think it's usually proportional? And she's not seeing anything anyway," he added, though he was now _thinking_ about that. A little too graphically. Her face was so expressive, he could only imagine what she'd look like when-

Nope. Not a good thing to think about right now.

"You think if you asked really nice the godfather guy would let you keep the body?" Bucky asked, slowing the horses as they neared the center of the city. "I'd love to see Meathead's face when he saw you."

"He actually did see me, in the announcement line yesterday. Did not recognize me at all."

"That will make it even funnier."

"I could join the army. They'd take me built like this." This body would give him more options. Even if they were lonely ones. He heard Bucky sigh at the suggestion. Because he'd come with him. Steve knew that. Even built like this Bucky would want to come take care of him.

They found a spot in the long line of carriages leading up to the palace. Bucky held the reins loosely and turned to look at Steve. "Let's try the whole lord of your own manor thing first, right?"

"That's definitely Plan A."

When they reached the head of the line, Bucky hopped down to open the door for Steve. "Good luck. I'll try to find a close spot to wait for you."

He climbed out, and looked at his friend for a moment. "Thank you."

Bucky grinned and slapped him on the arm. "You can do this."

Steve nodded, and then started up the castle steps. He hoped last night he hadn't ruined everything. No way through it but forward, he supposed.

There was another line as he waited to be announced. It was absolutely interminable, but eventually "Lord Grant" echoed over the crowd's dull roar and he headed down the stairs to the party.

The room still overwhelmed him, all the light and people and ostentatious wealth. But almost immediately, his eyes found her.

She blushed and looked away briefly, then back to him. It was hard to read her expression from this far away. But then the Queen's secretary appeared at his side. "The Princess wishes to speak with you in the green parlor but only if -" She glanced down at her ever present notepad. "He feels like explaining himself."

He looked down at the woman a moment. "That might take a while. But yes, I will explain if she's willing to keep an open mind."

"I will pass on the message." She disappeared back into the crowd. He fidgeted where he stood for a few moments before she reappeared to lead him out of the ball room.

The princess was waiting for him in a parlor that was, indeed, predominantly green. Her gown was blue tonight, with stars embroidered in silver thread. It was an extremely flattering color on her. She gave Newbury a nod of thanks and waited until the other woman had left before speaking. "I half expected you not to show tonight," she told him.

"I'm sorry about last night," he said. "I wish I didn't have to leave like that."

"Did you have a previous engagement?" she asked with just the tiniest hint of sarcasm.

Yes. She was mad. And that might not get better. "Do you believe in magic?" he asked quietly.

He watched annoyance and confusion cross that expressive face of hers. She inhaled deeply through her nose and seemed to gather up calm and poise from somewhere. Then she said, cautiously, "I believe there are things in this world that cannot be explained."

"I have something to tell you," he said. "It's going to sound. . . kind of insane. Possibly very insane. I have one request before I tell you."

She tilted her head. "What is it?"

"If you think I'm nuts, or lying or. . ." He shrugged. "Would you consider throwing me out instead of locking me up?"

After studying him intently a moment, she nodded sharply. "Agreed." She stepped back and sank onto a plump settee and waved a regal hand. "Sit. And start at the beginning."

He sat across from her, and took a deep breath. "I'm not a Lord. At least, well, I suppose I am one by birth, or at least should be. But I'm not currently. Grant is my middle name. My real name is Rogers. Lady Rogers is my stepmother, you may know her and her two idiot sons. She is my father's second wife, and she. . .stole my title." 

"I've met that woman," the princess said, wrinkling her nose. "I am relieved you're not related to her. How did she steal your life?"

Steve took a deep breath and started at the beginning.


	4. Chapter 4

It was an incredible tale. Just absolutely remarkable. Sharon made an effort to listen with an open mind. She smothered her questions, waiting until he was totally done. Parts of it were so bizarre - a fairy godfather? a squash carriage? - that she completely understood why he had given her the warning earlier. But she had meant what she'd said about things being impossible to explain.

The rest of it - his grasping step mother, his awful living situation - all made far too much sense. And, honestly, explained so much. His inability to dance, or navigate the ball or know which fork to use. His interest and passion in the plight of servants. This story answered a great many questions.

When he was done she took a moment to turn everything over in her head. He waited, clearly nervous. "So the only reason you came to the balls was to get an audience with my aunt? You had no plans or interest in marrying me?"

She could see in his eyes that he though this might be the thing that did him in. "I had no plans, no. _Interest_ , well. . ." He looked at the fire. "Maybe in a different life. But this is merely a temporary facade. Actual me isn't anywhere near your league." He looked back at her. "I did also really, really want to see the art." 

Of course. It would be the only man in the building who didn't intend to marry her that caught her eye. She sighed and pinched her the bridge of her nose. Her aunt was going to kill her.

Well, maybe she could marry the boy who liked plants. She doubted she'd make any heirs but the gardens would never look better. There were other things to do right now, but later she was going to have a proper wallow about all this.

Sharon stood and fluffed out her skirts. "I'll have Newbury bring my aunt here. I _strongly_ suggest skipping the part about fairies and squash when you talk to her."

"Yes, your highness," he said quietly.

She went to the door and asked the footman at the end of the hall to retrieve Newbury and the queen. She waited there in the hallway until the women came, her aunt had a wide, hopeful grin on her face that fell as soon as she saw Sharon. "What-?"

Drawing herself up to her full height, she said as calmly and with as much detachment as possible, "Lord Gr- The man inside has a matter he wishes to discuss with you. He has been treated abhorrently by his step-mother and has gone to a great deal of trouble to see you."

Aunt Peggy studied her throughly, confusion obvious on her face. "Sharon."

She shook her head. "We can discuss it later, I promise to cry and rail against the fairness of it all then. But for now, I would consider it a personal favor if you would hear what he has to say."

She nodded. "All right. I'll hear him out."

The three of them went into the room. Rogers shot to his feet and waited until Aunt Peggy had eased herself into a chair and waved at him until retaking his seat. With a glance at Sharon he began to tell her a short version of the story he had told her.

Sharon stood to the side next to Newbury, staring at a spot on the wall and thinking of nothing but her breathing. Her future loomed before her in a dark, chaotic tangle. But this, she knew, was the right thing to do.

There was a moment of silence after he finished speaking. Then Aunt Peggy turned. "Newbury. Look into this. If it's genuine I want it fixed immediately."

She could see Rogers sag in relief. "Thank you, your Majesty. I can't even. . . Thank you."

Aunt Peggy nodded. "You're quite welcome. I'm sorry you had to go to such trouble to bring this to my attention."

He smiled, and Sharon could even hear it in his voice. "It was far more pleasure than trouble."

"Hmm." She stood and turned to Sharon. "I'm going to rejoin the ball. Will we be graced by your presence?"

The last thing in the world she wanted to do was go smile in the ball room. But retiring to her room wouldn't get her any privacy either. "In a moment," she said quietly.

"Your Majesty," Rogers said, and he stopped and turned. "I may be about to ruin my own life right now, but. . . my father married her for the best of reasons. Because everyone said a widower can't raise a child on his own. He need a wife, and swiftly. So he chose one, swiftly, without taking the time, without having the time, to get look at the person beneath the shiny surface that he'd be stuck with the rest of his life. And it turned out more horrible than he could have imagined." 

Peggy studied him a moment, up and down. "What is your point, son?"

"Marriage isn't something to rush into. Or something someone should have to do under duress."

Her lips pursed in a way that Sharon associated with not getting dessert for a week. She was pretty sure Rogers was about to lose all Peggy's good graces. Then she turned and looked at Sharon. "Is there anyone you've found you can see spending your life with?"

It was a real effort to not look at Rogers. He was very clearly off the table, wanting didn't make it so. "No," she said. "They're boors or vapid or think I'm only good for producing babies and wearing pretty dresses. They want me because I'm the princess and they want to be a king someday. They don't know me nor do they care to learn. If you forced me to pick one I probably could, but I wouldn't like him and I wouldn't be happy."

She sighed heavily, and nodded. She looked back at Rogers. "You are either an idiot, or very brave. In any case, you have no sense of self-preservation."

He cleared his throat. "I'll admit to that. But if I don't do what's right, I'm not worth much of any title, am I?"

Peggy stared him down a moment, then gave a little "Hmph" sound that Sharon thought was kind of impressed. "Newbury," Peggy said finally. "You may throw out the princess's list. There will be no engagement."

"Yes, ma'am," Newbury said, not hiding her smile.

Sharon lurched forward and hugged her aunt, not caring that they had an audience. She rubbed Sharon's back. "There, there."

Fearing she was going to break down completely, she gave Peggy one more tight squeeze and stepped back. Peggy patted her cheek gently, smiling. Then the Queen slipped back into place and she stepped away. "If you don't wish to rejoin the ball you aren't required to. Get some rest." With that she gestured to Newbury and swept out of the room.

Into the silence, Rogers said, "Thank you."

She cleared her throat. "Thank _you_."

"It was the least I could do. Also, it was true and I meant it."

She looked over at him and managed a smile. "I think you're going to be a very good lord."

"I guess we'll see about that." He came closer to her. "Someday, you'll be a very good queen."

"I guess we'll see about that." This close, she fought the urge to touch him. "Someday."

"I just want you to know, if things were different, I would have liked to. . ." He sighed. "Stay longer."

Her mind wandered to all manner of inappropriate things. That gallery was awfully private. Unable to resist any longer, she reached out and brushed her knuckles against the soft fabric of his jacket. "Maybe. . . maybe in another life. Where things are different."

She looked up at him then, and there was regret written all over his face. "I should go, shouldn't I?"

"Yes," she said softly. Before this hurt more. Before she did something she'd regret. "But first, you should kiss me goodbye."

His breath shuddered out of him, and then he had her face in his hands and the kiss wasn't hesitant or gentle or chaste. She heard herself groan and her arms went around his waist, pulling herself flush against him. It was just like in the gallery, except that one had been filled with hope and promise, and this one filled with sadness and loss. But it was the only thing they had left.

Finally they slowly parted and she felt tears burning the backs of her eyes. "You should go," she whispered. He nodded, and didn't say anything. He just squeezed her a little tighter for a moment, and then he was gone.

Collapsing right here in a sobbing heap was tremendously appealing. But with a little effort she could be upstairs in her chambers. If she collapsed on her bed in a sobbing heap then she could stay there for days. And so she made her way to the back steps and up to the family quarters. She didn't even bother taking her dress off before the collapsing and sobbing.

Eventually she heard the door open. It had to be her Aunt, the servants would knock. A moment later, she sat on the bed to rub Sharon's back. "You really liked him, didn't you?"

She took a ragged breath and nodded. "He wasn't like the rest of them."

"No, I could see that about him. Both in his character and that he is quite nice to look at."

According to the uncensored version of his story, that wasn't always true. She couldn't tell her aunt that, though. And in truth she didn't care. She'd never get a chance to prove it and that hurt as well. "I could picture a future with him. Talking about art and politics and going over problems and policy together. It was the kind of partnership I always wanted." She wiped at her face, then took the handkerchief her aunt offered. "I didn't appreciate it would be so hard to find."

"I'm going to give him his title back. I can't stand Lady Rogers and I absolutely believe she could do something like this. Newbury is just going to double check the paperwork."

Sharon nodded. "He'll be a much better lord than anyone that woman would raise."

"What I mean is, he won't live far off. He's of noble blood. The door isn't closed."

"He has no plans to marry me," she said miserably. "He said as much. He only wanted to talk to you and have justice served. And he's accomplished that."

"And the he attempted to toss it all to the wind to help you."

There was that. She sighed and dabbed her eyes again. Hope was dangerous, but she didn't think Aunt Peggy would let it drop. "Maybe someday."

She leaned down to kiss Sharon's brow. "Someday is still something, my darling."

*

Steve found Bucky down in the mews, playing cards with a group of other drivers. The other men all scrambled to their feet and mumbled various "My lord"s. He actually turned to look over his shoulder before he remembered they were talking to him.

His life really was about to change, wasn't it?

"It's done," he said to Bucky. "Let's go home."

He could tell Bucky had a million questions. But he didn't ask any of them, just turned to scoop up his winnings and tipped his hat to his new friends before slinking away like the chastised servant he was supposed to be.

When they were out of the alleys and back on the street, Bucky turned. "So what happened?"

"I met the Queen. She will restore the legal validity of my parents marriage." He didn't want to sit in the back of the coach, so he climbed up next to Bucky on the driver’s box. "I also persuaded her to let the Princess not get married."

Bucky looked over at him. "And the Princess?"

He stared at the buildings going buy as the crawled towards the edge of the city. "She kissed me goodbye."

Silence from the other side of the seat. He thought maybe he'd get a little peace for the ride but then Bucky said, "So you managed to get exactly what you wanted and still made yourself miserable."

"It's a talent, isn't it?"

"Everyone has to have one." He flicked the reins. "So, now what? Wait for the guards to come drag herself away?"

He laughed. "I have no fuckin' clue." Then he sighed. "They can't drag her off. I'll have to. . .get her a house somewhere. She's still Jack's mother, and he needs her. I'll have to figure something out so he doesn't grow up like Fop and Meathead. He is my heir after all. And my brother."

"I'm all for not adding more Meathead's to the world, but he's only your heir till you make yourself a new one."

"We'll see about that." He was sure the women would come—the title was too appealing. But would they really want him beyond that? He had no idea. "I still almost die every winter," he said instead.

"Warm clothes, a comfortable bed and sufficient firewood might help with that." They pulled into the townhouse courtyard and Bucky led the carriage to the back garden before they both climbed down. "What time is it?" he asked, peering at the carriage, then Steve. "Gotta be near midnight."

"You are both brave, and an idiot," came a voice behind them. Steve turned to see Fury the Fairy Godfather.

"Hello," Steve said in greeting. "Were you . . . watching me?"

"I keep tabs. Make sure you're not screwing it up too badly." He nodded at Bucky in acknowledgement. "You're welcome, by the way."

Bucky frowned in confusion. "I didn't say thank you."

"You will."

"I am going to give you a very nice job," Steve told him.

"Yeah," Fury said dryly. "That. So. Got your audience with the queen. Got your title. Are you happy?"

Steve swallowed the swift stab he felt, and tried to keep his, "Yes," as unhesitant as he could. And he would be. As soon as he stopped thinking about her.

Fury didn't look convinced and Steve wondered exactly how much he saw and knew. "Then I suppose there's only one thing left to do."

"If you're going to tell me this is a fever dream, I'm going to punch you."

He actually chuckled. "No. No." He held up a finger and the church bells started to chime. They stood throughout all twelve chimes and Steve watched the carriage melt back into a squash. He closed his eyes because the sensation of shrinking was disorienting. When he opened them, he found himself the same height.

Bucky was frowned, glancing from him to that poor abused squash. "Aren't you supposed to be little?"

He turned to look at Fury. "What. . .?"

The other man shrugged. "If you're gonna be a lord, you should look the part."

Steve stared down at his feet, then looked at Bucky. "Holy shit."

His friend laughed, then reached out and hugged him, slamming him on the back. It was surreal, and Steve was too stunned to speak. Bucky seemed to have no problem talking. "This is permanent? Okay, yes, thank you."

"Still not it, but you're welcome for this, too." Fury fidgeted with his cuffs. "Seems like this is the time to say something profound, but I'm not much for speeches. I will say good luck. And when in doubt, listen to your gut."

"Sometimes his gut is reckless," Bucky piped up.

"Yeah, well. Fortune favors the brave." 

Fury shook his head. "Good luck, Rogers." Then he gave a little gesture and was gone, leaving nothing but a shimmer in the air.

Steve stared at the spot for a long moment. "Holy shit."

Bucky slung an arm around his shoulders and shook him gently. "Please let me be there when you confront Herself and the boys."

They were home within the hour, all three of them complaining loudly how the Princess's husband hunt had been cut short. Steve could hear them in the hall. He'd had every intent of stepped out of the shadows and saying something witty, but by the time they reached the door of the parlor where he and Bucky were waiting, they had started to complain about the Princess herself. Rudely, graphically.

Beating the shit of Meathead while Fop and Herself shrieked in the background was still quite satisfying.

After that, the whole physical transformation reveal was really moot. He left him bleeding on the floor and dragged a laughing Bucky to the kitchen to help ice his knuckles.

The Queen's guards and steward came the next morning and announced, in front of half the servants and and any neighbors with good ears that Herself was no longer mistress of the house. Steve was handed a very official looking piece of paper declaring him the fifth Lord Rogers, legitimate heir to his father's title, estates and accounts. It was signed by the Queen herself.

Life came at him very quickly after that. His fathers country estate was a neglected mess. The finances were a mess. Herself had looted his mothers jewelry and sold a great number of heirlooms to fill in the gaps caused by the underproducing land. He thought, more often than he should, about visiting court. He could thank the Queen and dance with the Princess. Maybe things would be different, now. But he didn't have much by way of spare time, and she deserved to be able to enjoy her new freedom. 

He made arrangements for Jack's education, and put Herself on a tight allowance, and a tighter leash. He left the house staff with generously-compensated instructions to report back to him on her behavior. Fop and Meathead were evicted from the house. He didn't care where they went, but he made it very clear to Herself that she would starve if he caught her supporting them with _his_ money.

Then he and Bucky—his newly appointed Steward— headed into the country.

The country estate was as much of a mess as the books indicated. He spent weeks going around meeting his tenants - the ones who hadn't already given up and moved on - and making a growing list of things that needed to be done. It was good, in the long run, that he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. He was pretty sure he earned some lifetime loyalty working alongside the tenants to build dams and plow fields. This body was far more suited for the work, too.

They had a small harvest in the fall, but still a larger one than they'd seen in years. He and Bucky wintered at the estate. It was the first winter in his memory he didn't end up in bed, near death.

"You should write her," Bucky told him one afternoon. "I can tell you still think about her."

He didn't pretend to misunderstand, even though the statement came out of nowhere. "I'm sure she's got better things to do."

"I bet she still has time to read a letter."

"What could I possibly say?"

"Tell her about yourself. Your life." He gestured broadly at the room the were in and the snowy fields out the window. "She helped you get this, tell her what you did with it."

She would, he thought, be proud of him. What harm could a letter do, anyway? It was just as likely she wouldn't write back, of course, and that would be that. But then maybe he could finally, finally, stop thinking about her.

What was supposed to be just a quick note to let her know he was well and happy and grateful turned into a multi page letter chronicling everything he'd done the last few months. He told her about his brother's tutors, his step-mother's strict budget and stricter rules. He told her about the estate and the tenants and the improvements he'd managed to make. He even told her about the cow that had been born late-summer that no one had thought would be strong enough to survive the cold weather but was thriving and expected to be the biggest steer of the season. He was way too proud of that cow.

Once he was done, he couldn't believe he'd written so much and about so many things. He left it on his desk to sleep on it, sure he wouldn't send it. Only to find in the morning at Bucky had whisked it off on his trip into town.

Most surprising of all was the thick letter that arrived from the palace two weeks later. He didn't open it immediately, until Bucky snatched it from him and threatened to open it himself and do a dramatic reading during dinner.

"You're a shit, you know that?" Steve told him. "I could fire you."

"You'd be lost without me in a week."

That was very true. He held out his hand. "Give me the envelope."

Bucky slapped it into his hand. "You better open it."

He tore the seal and pulled out the pages—multiple pages— covered in her neat elegant hand. She told him how happy she was to get the letter, that she _was_ proud of his farms and even his cow. She was busy, she was learning, she was happy.

She had begun sitting in on her aunt's advisor meetings so she could listen and learn about the ins and outs of running a kingdom. Apparently, the foreign advisor loved her, as she had a particular flare for negotiations and scheming. It made him smile, thinking about her plotting with some jaded old man.

The last paragraph of the letter told him she had commissioned her royal portrait - without a husband. 

_Enclosed is one of the reference sketches he used. When I got your letter I requested it so that I could send it to you for your critique. I don't know if any comment from you will reach me in time but I am interested in your opinion. Newbury, Aunt Peggy's secretary, is researching who sculpted Sir Smithy. If she can find him maybe I'll have a royal sculpture done as well._

_With best regards,_

_Her Highness, Princess Sharon_

He unfolded the sketch, and traced his fingers over her face. The artist had done a wonderful job. He especially appreciated that she looked like an adult and not a coddled princess. Standing rather than sitting, she held her head high and looked off in the distance. It was exactly how he wanted to remember her.

Their correspondence continued throughout the winter. Some of the letters were novels and some mere notes. But it made him feel a part of her life. He felt such an odd mix of joy and regret every time he saw that royal seal on a new letter—but then reading them, all he felt was contentment. He began to send her sketches of the estate, the land and the plants and the animals and the people. The world he was surrounded by. In return, she told him about everything happening in the city, describing it in such vivid detail he could practically see it.

Neither of them ever spoke of seeing each other.

When spring came, his days became busy and his letter writing often fell to the side. He felt awful about it, especially when Sharon's letters continued to trickle in more or less regularly. She never mentioned his lack of replies, which he chalked up to palace taught manners. He read all of her letters, sometimes over and over.

He would make it up to her. There would be a lull after plantings and foaling, a little bit, and then after fall harvest he'd write her every day if he had to.

Then, one afternoon in the middle of June, word reached their little village that the Queen had died. 

The vicar rode out to the estate to tell Steve, who was on one of the outlying farms negotiating a border dispute between two of his tenants. Tragic news made people conciliatory, which was good because Steve rode back to the main house like the devil was chasing him. He came up the hall from the kitchens and ran into the housekeeper. He told her about the queen, and asked her to tell the household. "And have you seen Mr. Barnes?"

She dabbed her eyes with the end of her apron. "He was speaking with the main gardner in the back courtyard, last I saw him."

Steve must have run right past him. "Thanks," he said, and went back outside.

Bucky was waiting for him. "What the hell is going on?"

He sighed. "The Queen died. And I want. . . I think I need to go." The thought hadn't fully crystalized until he said it, but it had been stewing in the back of his head, that sudden sense of urgency.

"Okay," Bucky said slowly. "Do you want me to help you with that or talk you out of it?"

"Do you think it's ridiculous to think that she needs me?"

He paused. "No, I don't. She wouldn't write you that much if she didn't feel close to you."

"Fury told me to follow my gut. And I can't explain it—but it's screaming right now." She was still afraid, he knew that from her letters. She didn't think she was ready.

Bucky nodded, bless him. "Good enough for me. I'll talk with the horse master and send messages to the main tenants. You go get your valet packing your bags and tell the housekeeper we'll be gone for the foreseeable."

"You probably should stay and look after the estate." Even though he kind of wanted the company, especially if he was wrong.

"The estate can handle itself for a while. You're gonna need back up."

Steve looked at him a long moment, then nodded. Bucky had made a career out of looking after him. "Get packed."

"I'll meet you at the stables."


	5. Chapter 5

Sharon was hiding.

This was not, admittedly, a particularly queenly thing to do. But she had had something of an awful few days and hiding had seemed the best option. Newbury was doing her best to play gatekeeper, only bothering Sharon with the most important questions and visitors. But even that was becoming too much. There was a funeral to plan, a coronation to arrange, condolences to receive. Not to mention the country to run. There seemed to be no time left to grieve or to find her footing.

No one would think to look for her in the art gallery. It was far harder to climb up a marble horse in mourning weeds than in pinafores, but she'd managed it. Sir Smithy, as always, was a stable and resolute companion. 

She heard the door open and sighed. Newbury knew every nook and cranny of this place, of course she would have found her. "I don't care," she called. "I don't care what color dress she wears in the casket, I don't care which march they play at the coronation and I don't care if the King of Wherever has sent four white horses that I must accept. I. Don't. Care."

"Everyone knows sympathy horses should be black," came a familiar voice.

Her breath caught in her throat and she twisted around to see the speaker. "Rogers?"

He strolled further into the room, looking as good as the last time she'd seen him. Better, even. "When I received my sudden elevation in status, I had million instant fake friends, and it was very disorienting to not know who I could trust. And so I thought maybe you could use some company from someone you knew you could. Trust. Assuming you do. If not, if you could just throw me out instead of locking me up, I'd appreciate that."

She had never, in her life, been so happy to see someone. "You spend far too much time worrying if I'm about to put you in prison."

"When I first practiced that line, it was actually beheading. Bucky thought that was overly dramatic." He gestured behind. "My best friend. The one person I could trust, actually. He tagged along, I left him with Newbury."

He had stopped at the base of the statue. She ducked under Sir Smithy's arm and slid off, into his arms. "It's really good to see you," she said softly.

He hugged her, strong and steady. "So it was good to come, then?"

"It was very, very good of you to come."

"Good." He rocked her for a moment. "I'm so sorry."

She nodded, sucking in a short breath. "Thank you." Then she started to cry. And he held her, and let her sob as long as she wanted. No questions, no entreaties to calm down, no lectures on what was becoming a queen. He just rubbed her back, and let her soak his shirt.

When she was all worn out he set her down on her feet and produced a soft cotton handkerchief for her to discretely wipe her eyes and blow her nose. "Thank you," she said again. She cleared her throat. "How long can you stay? The funereal is the day after tomorrow, but Newbury tells me the coronation will be almost a month. I know this is a busy time for you with planting and the animals being birthed. . ."

"I'm here as long as you need me. My tenants are pretty self-sufficient, honestly. Mostly they just humor me at let me help because I can't bear to sit on my ass all day."

She smiled and took a deep breath, feeling immensely better. He was right, it was good to have someone to trust. To lean on. "Will you be staying at your townhouse or shall I have rooms made up in the guest wing?"

"Herself is in the townhouse," he replied. "I could go there, but. . ."

"Our guest quarters are quite comfortable."

"Thank you." He paused. "Would you mind putting Bucky up in the guest rooms as well? He sleeps in the family part of the house at home."

"Of course, that won't be a problem at all." She tucked her arm through his elbow. "Come. I'll ask Newbury to get started on the arrangements. Then I can show you my portrait."

He grinned. "I have been looking forward to that."

They came out into the hallway to find Newbury and a broad-shouldered, dark haired man leaning on the wall next to her. He was grinning and Newbury was a shade of pink Sharon had never seen on the other woman before. When she saw them coming, the pink darkened and she jumped away from him. "Your Majesty."

She could see Rogers making faces at his friend, who grinned wider and shrugged.

"Lord Rogers and his friend will be staying with us through the coronation. Can you see that they have comfortable rooms in the guest wing."

"Of course, Your Majesty." She made a note in her notebook and walked away, very deliberately not looking at Rogers' companion. 

Sharon wasn't entirely sure what the protocol was for handling someone flirting with your secretary, but Newbury was a good friend and had made the last few days bearable. So Sharon felt the need to give him her best royal glare.

He flushed and looked down. Rogers cleared his throat. "Your majesty, this is James Barnes, my Steward."

She waited for him to bow low to her before saying, "A pleasure to meet you. Lord Rogers has spoken highly of you in our correspondence."

"I should hope so," he replied, causing Rogers to laugh.

"I was about to show him the portrait gallery. I'm sure Miss. Newbury will be back to show you your rooms soon. Unless you'd care to join us." It was the las thing she wanted but she was pretty sure leaving him here alone without at least _offering_ to have him come along was rude.

"No, thank you, I'm tired from the road," he said smoothly. "I think I'd like to just go to my room for now."

She inclined her head. "I will see you at supper, then." She looked up at Steve. "Shall we?"

His smile melted her, and he offered her his arm. "Your majesty."

The royal portrait gallery was a rather dark, dour room, lit only by sconces over the paintings, with heavy velvet drapes between them so that one could only focus on the art. It was a motley assortment of her relatives and ancestors. Her uncle had a spot, as he had been the crowned prince for a respectable amount of time. Her father was not there, save for as a child in the family portrait of Aunt Peggy's. Peggy had a solo portrait as well, done in her more matronly years. She managed to look severe and approachable at the same time.

Sharon's was at the very end of the hallway. Unlike the other women's solo portraits she was standing, not sitting with her hands primly folded. She was posed as a man might be, standing next to a gleaming wood table, in a rich blue gown. Her chin was tilted and she looked off at something to the right of the viewer. She was very proud of that painting.

He studied it with his serious artist's eyes. "You look like a queen," he said quietly.

"I don't feel like one," she admitted, just as quiet.

"Some days I still don't feel like a lord. It gets better."

She nodded and leaned on his arm. "I just. . . miss her."

He shifted to wrap it around her. People had stopped touching her when she became queen, and no one had ever touched her as much as her aunt. It had made her feel very lonely. So his warm body against her side was all the better. "That gets better, too."

Closing her eyes, she stood in silence with him a moment. "I can't ever thank you for coming here."

"I just. . . I don't know. I thought you might need me."

That was as surprising as it was an understatement. His letters had become a necessary and beloved part of her days. She had them collected in a box in her desk, and they had been read and reread over and over again. At times it had felt like he was there with her, giving her advice and telling her about his days. When Peggy had died and she had found herself adrift, she had wished, desperately, that he was there to hold her hand.

She leaned back. "I need you. So much."

He leaned his head down to rest his forehead on hers. "Then I will stay as long as that remains true."

There was the distinct possibility that that would be a very, very long time. It didn't seem the right time to say that, so she tilted her chin up and kissed him. He sighed, and there was a little surprise in it. Enough to tell her hadn't come with expectations. But the way he kissed her told her that just because he didn't expect to, didn't mean he didn't want to.

She melted into him. It felt the way it had a year ago, and their stolen kisses during the balls. The world narrowed down to the two of them and the places where they touched seemed the only real parts of her.

He lifted his head and kissed her nose. "Come on," he said gently. "We've got work to do."

"Yes." Her looming list of tasks and decisions no longer seemed so daunting, with him by her side. "Let's get started."

*

Just like when he'd been putting his estate to rights, they took each problem one at a time. The funeral was elaborate and complicated to plan. It was also big and formal and very, very public. Steve was so proud of how she held her chin up beneath her black veil, looking regal and competent and not at all like her heart was breaking.

After the receptions were over, and every last person had retreated, she had nearly collapsed into him. He carried her to bed, intending to leave her there. But she hung on, and so they slept like that, in their extravagant ceremonial mourning outfits, on top of her blankets.

In the morning she blushed a little when she realized they had spent the night together. That was it, though. No apologies or stilted conversation. There was too much to do for that and so he kissed her cheek and slipped away to his room before her maids came to dress her.

The coronation still loomed, but it was a ceremony, and meant little. There was a country to run, and she was the queen. So they kept breaking things down into smaller problems. Meeting with this advisor, then that one, drawing a map of what her council looked like. They worked late into the night sometimes, falling asleep together in the middle of their papers.

"It's after midnight," he said, poking her awake. "The candles are burnt down."

She grumbled and sat up stretching her arms over her head. "I'm sure I have some vital meeting in the morning, too." Scrubbing a hand over her face she sighed. "This will get easier once things are settled, won't it?"

"This stuff? Yes. But there will probably always be emergencies." He stood, holding out his hand. "That's why you have good advisors."

Taking his hand, she let him pull her to her feet. "They are a good bunch, I'll give them that."

"You should give me an official post," he informed her. "People are starting to talk."

She looked at him. "My goodness. What are they saying?"

"Well, there technically isn't a male version of 'Royal Mistress', but that's about the gist of it."

They slipped out of her office and started towards the stairs that would take them to the guest quarters. The hallways were quiet, too late in the day for maids or butlers, too early for the kitchen staff to be rousing. "I'll talk to Newbury and see what sort of title we can dig up. I don't imagine it would stop those particular rumors, though."

He chuckled. "That's probably true. People do remember the husband-hunt balls, apparently."

"Yes, those will haunt me a long time. Until I actually find a proper husband, most likely."

He supposed she would do that one day. He hoped he was on the list, because he didn't think he could stomach watching her court and marry someone else. In truth, he had no idea where they stood—it wasn't like he was actually her concubine. By some unspoken agreement, they had put matters of state ahead of whatever was between them. Sometimes, though, their air still crackled around them and he longed to kiss her.

They let that last sentence hang so long it became awkward and obvious, while gave him even less of an idea of what to say in reply.

Before either of them could find a way to break the silence they reached his rooms. "Sleep well," she said quietly.

Steve opened his mouth to reply, and there was a not-particularly-quiet moan from one of the nearby rooms. He turned, not sure if it was pain or—

"More. Please. Just like that," cried the voice—it was a woman's. It sounded like it was coming from Bucky's room. He must have a woman in there. Who was clearly enjoying herself quite a lot. There was the rumble of his voice now, shushing her, and she laughed. They had no idea how loudly the sound was carrying through the old walls. 

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, and then noticed the Queen staring at the door with the oddest, slightly horrified, look on her face. Surely she was aware of such activities? He knew princesses were raised very sheltered, but she hadn't blinked at the royal mistress thing. Of course, being conceptually aware of something and understanding the mechanics were two completely different things, let alone actually listening to two people fucking.

Speaking of, _neither_ of them needed to listen Bucky graphically narrate said fucking that he was clearly enjoying, or some courtesan have an orgasm, but that was what was now drifting out to the hall. He winced and stepped forward to bang on the door loudly, but the Queen caught his arm to stop him.

"If you interrupt them, I'm fairly sure the embarrassment will kill Newbury. And I really need her to be able to look me in the eye again."

He looked down at her. "Newbury? That's Newbury?"

The female cries had changed in pitch and the Queen's expression had turned thoughtful. "Had you asked me an hour ago I would have put real money on her _not_ being able to make noises like that."

"I don't want to be listening to this," he muttered. He didn't want to be thinking about sex with her standing there, looking all flushed and amused.

"Well good luck with that, because I'm certain you'll be able to hear it in your room if we can hear it out here."

"Jesus," he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

The noises seemed to come to a crescendo and then quickly tapered off into sleepy murmurs. The Queen's cheeks were quite red, but she still looked more amused than embarrassed. "Perhaps they're done for the night."

He cleared his throat. "Indeed. I'm sorry for that, your majesty."

She waved a hand. "It's fine. Though the only reason he's not getting beheaded is because he's your friend and she sounded like she was having an excellent time."

That made Steve laugh, and cleared some of the tension. "I will make sure he does right by her, I promise."

"Thank you." She bobbed a little curtsey. "I'll see you in the morning, Rogers."

He returned a bow. "Good night, your majesty."

She gave him one last long almost assessing look, that heated him from the inside out. Then she turned and walked down the hall, towards her chambers. He leaned against his door and watched her go. 

The next morning her majesty had a breakfast meeting with a duke, so Steve ate in his rooms with a very smug looking Bucky. "Look. I wasn't going to bring this up yet, but you've got that stupid look on your face." He took a swig of his coffee and looked at his friend. "Fuck. Quieter." 

To his credit, Bucky blushed. "Seriously?"

"We could hear you in the hallway."

His brows went up. "We?"

"She walked up with me, we were up late. Working." He sounded grumpy about that even to his own ears.

Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. "Oh. Shit. Amanda's going to kill me."

"Amanda? Is that her name?" He hadn't really pictured Newbury as having a given name. Obviously she did, but nobody knew it. He wasn't even sure the Queen knew it.

"Yes. That's her name." Now Bucky sounded grumpy. "She's very funny and smart and . . . prickly."

"So this is an actual. . . thing?"

He poked at his eggs. "She made it very clear that she likes her job far too much to dally with a country steward." Steve had a feeling that was a direct quote. Prickly, indeed. "So, yes, it's very much a thing. But she wants to keep it quiet until the coronation is over. She doesn't want anyone to pressure the Queen to dismiss her."

"She wouldn't do that." Bucky gave him a look. "Seriously. I know her as well as anyone save for you. She wouldn't do that. She was worried about embarrassing Newbury, I probably shouldn't have mentioned she was there."

Bucky made a little noncommittal noise. "Well, I'll at least tell her it's out of the bag. The Queen invited her to the coronation ball as a guest, not a servant and she wanted to bring me."

"Well, I was going to invite you as a guest, so you can be each other's escorts."

"She will be more fun to dance with."

He laughed. "I wasn't going to invite you as my date, Buck. The Queen gave me a headcount to invite whomever I wanted. I got her to agree I could invite some of the tenants to the ceremony, I don't know if they'll want to come to the ball. But I think having normal people there is a good idea."

Bucky stared at him a moment. "She gave you headcount. Are the rumors about you true and you didn't tell me?"

"I am not, in fact, a kept man."

"Why not? She seems really generous."

He sighed. "She's trying to learn how to run a country. Her dance card is a bit full."

"I know it's probably been a while, but sex is generally done on one's free time." Bucky reached over and poured himself more coffee. "And is a relaxing activity."

Steve sighed. For some reason Bucky assumed because _he_ had had luck with the milkmaids, somehow Steve had, too. There was no "a while". Though God knew he'd had some offers since getting his title. That he hadn't been interested probably said something. "I have a busy day ahead. I'll see you at dinner?"

"Of course."

He smiled a little. "I'm happy for you. But keep it down."

"I will do my best." He lifted his cup to his mouth and paused. "She's a bit of a talker, though."

"I don't want to know that," he replied.

"You used to let me tell stories," Bucky complained.

He got as far as the door, and stopped. He probably should be this irritated at the bragging. But after everything that had happened, somehow Bucky still managed to get the girl, and Steve was still trying to figure his shit out. "Didn't really want to know then, either."

There was no response and when he glanced back Bucky looked oddly sad. For a moment neither of them said anything. Then, quietly, Bucky said, "I'm sorry."

He sighed. "No. I'm sorry. It's not your fault I'm inept with women."

"The Queen really does seem to like you," he offered. "She won't be new forever. And she's going to need a king."

Somehow that made him smile. "No. She won't need one." But he did hope maybe she'd want one.

His smile seemed to relieve Bucky. "Well. I wish you luck anyway."


	6. Chapter 6

Sharon's coronation ended up being somewhat like her birthday. So much time had been spent thinking about it and planning for it and anticipating it that when it finally came she still didn't feel ready for it.

Her dress was a thing of beauty, though. White and red and as elaborate as a wedding gown. Despite the dozen fittings she was still rather amazed at the picture she made in the mirror.

"I still think you look better in blue."

She tossed a smile over at Newbury, who was in a lovely silver gown unlike anything Sharon had ever seen on her before. She hadn't even mentioned the hickey on Newbury's throat that she'd clearly tried hard to cover with make-up. She was glad the other woman was so happy.

"I was informed by several advisors that red was _the_ color for coronations."

"Has he seen it yet?"

Sharon shook her head. "No." She didn't pretend she didn't know who Newbury was talking about. "It didn't seem appropriate for him to attend the fittings."

She shrugged. "You do take him to just about everything else."

"Not to things that involved nudity." Much to her regret.

"Perhaps you should," Newbury murmured.

"Just because _you_ fall in bed with every handsome, muscle-bound, tanned. . ." She pursed her lips.

"Lost where you were going with that, didn't you?"

"A bit." She sighed and turned to slip her shoes on. "We've been very busy."

"I know," she said mildly. "If you don't wish to, then that's that. If you do, I'd venture to say it's your move. You are a queen, after all."

She sighed again. "I know. I _know_. And I will. Soon."

Newbury just nodded. "Shall we put on your jewels?"

"Yes. Let's get on with this."

Once she was done up, Newbury helped her with her massive train, and slowly they began their way down the stairs and out to the ornate gold carriage that would take her to the cathedral in the center of the city. 

Lord Rogers waited for her in the very front hall by the door. His eyes drank her in all the way from the stairwell. She couldn't remember anyone ever looking at her like that.

"Do I look like a queen?" she asked softly when she reached him.

"You have always looked like a queen." He lifted her gloved hand in his and kissed her knuckles before bending into a bow. "I'll be driving your coach today."

Her cheeks warmed and she grinned. "Really?" She had been dreading the long drive to the cathedral alone with her thoughts.

"Well, I'll be up on the box, but it's the best I could do. I was told it's against protocol for anyone to ride in the coach with you."

"Yes." Most of these traditions were silly, though she was sure they had had deep, meaningful origins. She took Lord Rogers elbow and they walked out the grand doors to the carriage. "Thank you for this, though. It will be nice to know you're there."

"Bucky says I'm a lousy driver. You might be sorry if I crash."

"These skirts will protect me, I assure you."

He chuckled as he helped her up, and then he and Newbury stuffed her train into the coach. There was so much of it there wouldn't have been much room for another person. They closed and latched the door and Newbury stepped back to wave as Rogers climbed up into the driver's box. With a lurch, the carriage started rolling forward. Sharon took a deep breath and stared straight ahead.

The streets were lined with crowds, and she waved the entire way there. When they reached the cathedral, the archbishop was waiting to escort her from the carriage. She rested her arm on his as they climbed the steps to the cathedral.

"You'll do just fine," he told her quietly. "Your aunt was nervous, too."

She smiled and looked over at him. "Is anyone not nervous?"

He chuckled. "Probably not."

The cathedral was packed, and the aisle was long as they slowly made their way up it. The throne sat at the end, waiting for her. She resisted the urge to tighten her hand on the archbishop's arm as they neared it. The weight of everyone's gaze felt like a physical touch.

There were three short steps that lead to the throne. She released his arm at the bottom of them and slowly climbed them, turning at the top so her back was to the throne. The ceremony began, solemn words that had been recited before every monarch. She watched the sea of expectant faces in front of her, and somehow found Lord Rogers on the edge of the crowd.

He smiled at her, reassuring and supportive, and she felt herself breathe again. She offered him a little smile and tried to focus on the words the bishop was saying. The next thing she knew, the crown was being settled on her head, the scepter placed in her hand, and she sat on the throne. The roar from the crowd was thunderous.

She had been acting as the queen for a month now, meeting dignitaries and handing down law. But now, in this moment, she truly felt it. She knew her grin must have been huge.

Sharon walked back down the aisle, all on her own. 

There was more waving on the way back to the palace. She practically leaned out the window in her enthusiasm. It felt oddly like a weight had been lifted off of her shoulders, despite the fact she now had more responsibilities than ever before. But the coronation was done, the ball to come promised to be fun, and she felt free.

They took the slowest, most meandering route back to the palace. The carriage stopped and Lord Rogers hopped down to help her and her train out. "You did good," he told her.

"Thank you. Once I got past the nerves it was rather exhilarating."

"You did great. I'm proud of you."

"Thank you," she said again, softly. "Now I get to change my dress and have a party."

"Oh, good. I love this dress but I wasn't looking forward to dancing around it."

"They'd have to clear the whole floor for us."

He tucked her hand into his his elbow, and in they went. The entire household staff had lined up to applaud for her. She blushed and waved, stopping to touch hands with the housekeeper and head of staff and some of her personal maids. The cook - who was older than dirt and had fed her sticky pudding and apple tarts as a girl - stepped out of line to give her a hug.

Newbury was at the end of the line. "She'd be proud of you."

Sharon stepped forward and hugged her. "Thank you. For everything."

"It has been my pleasure every step of the way."

They both gave another tight squeeze before letting go. Sharon swore Newbury's eyes look a little bright. "Shall we go get you ready for the ball?"

Her ballgown was gorgeous, layers of shimmering satin and lace tucked up neatly so she could dance. It showed my more skin than her coronation gown. She felt very. . . royal when Newbury laced her into it. It was something a woman wore. A woman who knew herself and what she wanted.

She smoothed her hands down her bodice and skirt and nodded to herself. "He won't know what hit 'em."

Newbury watched her. "Do you remember the second night of the courting ball, when you asked me to simply assign him all dances? And I told you it was. . . making a public statement of intent."

"I remember. At the time I was quite certain we'd be announcing an engagement."

"You would likely be doing much the same today, if you are not careful."

It had occurred to her. Propriety would dictate she dance with some nobles and visiting royalty, but she had earmarked a great many for Rogers. As Queen, she could have her choice of men. But there was still only one that interested her. And she was currently feeling confident and powerful enough to get him. "I think it's time I made such a statement."

The other woman grinned, like that had been the answer she expected. "Ready?"

Sharon tipped her chin up and gave herself one more look in the mirror. "Absolutely."

Rogers and Barnes were at the bottom of the stairs in evening wear, having what looked like a friendly argument. There was shoulder punching. They turned almost in unison to watch the women descend.

A glance at Newbury showed she was blushing and grinning like a fool. Rogers had assured her that Barnes was quite serious about her and that this was no dalliance. Clearly, her secretary was equally besotted.

At the foot of the stairs she stopped before Rogers while Newbury reached for Barnes's hands. Rogers stepped to the side to give the other couple a little space. "Nice dress," he said. He was the only person who was ever that informal with her these days. "They told me I can't escort you in, but I wanted to at least see you."

Had she made an honest lord of him he could have escorted her. Though planning an engagement and wedding in the middle of all of this might have killed her _and_ Newbury. She went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. "I'm glad."

"Save me a dance?"

Oh, if he only knew. "I shall save you several, my lord."

That got her a grin, and then he bowed and headed for the ballroom. Barnes and Newbury stayed linked arm-in-arm. They were commoners, and had no protocol to follow. Sharon waited alone in the hall until the trumpets were played as she was announced. Then she entered the ball room to another long, deafening round of applause. She greeted her guests as she worked her way toward the throne set up a the front of the room. She didn't intend to sit in it much, but it needed to be there. She'd stand up and make a speech, and then the dancing would begin. She was supposed to start with the highest ranking man in the room, Newbury had told her.

She winged the speech and as such didn't remember much of it. Probably a lot of thanking people for their support and promising to be the best queen she knew how and following in her aunt's footsteps. She got another round of applause and then it was time to find the Duke of Wherever to start the dancing. Newbury floated up beside her and discretely pointed him out. He was portly and bald and old enough to be her father.

For a moment, she prepared herself to put on the royal smile and muscle through it. She was the Queen and there were certain traditions and proprieties that had to be upheld.

Then she spotted Lord Rogers at the fringes of the crowd and her resolve disappeared. She was the Queen. And she was going to do as she pleased.

So she marched over to Rogers and held out her hand. He looked surprised, but he took it, his big hand swallowing hers. A murmur rippled through the crowd. "I believe you have your dance cards out of order," he told her, but he was grinning.

"I believe the Queen can dance with who she wishes."

He stepped closer, and they moved into position, hands clasped, his other at her waist. "People will talk."

"People already talk," she said as they began to move into the steps of the dance. "This will simply give them a new topic."

As he swung her into the dance in perfect timing, she realized he was a much better dancer than the last time they'd danced, as if he had practiced. "My reputation will be ruined, you know."

She smiled. "It's all right. I'll set you up somewhere nice. All the jewels and fine clothes your little heart desires."

"The life of a royal mistress doesn't sound that bad."

"It's a highly prized position."

He grinned at her. "I will say that mistresses are usually hidden away, not given the ceremonial first dance."

She shrugged and smiled, feeling confident and at ease in her own skin. It was amazing how good the end of long term stress could be. "I'm a different kind of Queen."

He pulled her a little closer. "Now that I don't doubt."

The song ended far too soon and she let him go to dance with a few others. There was making a statement and then there was outright snubbing nobles she considered allies and friends. She even tracked down her friend the teenage botanist and let him lead her in a stiff Allemande while they discussed orchids and crocus and the proper application of mulch. She snagged Newbury and asked her to write his name down. He was going to be her head gardener someday, if only to spite his mother.

Spite was probably not a good thing to base decisions on, but sometimes it was a force of good.

Newbury came and found her when she thought it was socially acceptable to dance with Lord Rogers again. After the third dance, she commented. "One more and merchants are going to start selling Royal Wedding commemorative plates."

"See if we can get in on that, the treasury could use a bump." Newbury chuckled. "How much longer until I can make a graceful exit?"

"At least another hour," she replied with a sigh. Sharon imagined the other woman wanted to get on with her evening's activities as much as Sharon did. "I could have them stop the wine service, that tends to wind a party down."

She had gone past worrying about being too eager three or four dances ago. "If that happened, it would please Her Majesty."

Newbury smiled brightly. "I will see it done."

The next few dances passed in a merciful blur. After that the crowd did start to thin noticeably. Sharon made a leisurely circuit of the room until she found Lord Rogers chatting with Barnes. They both bowed. "Your majesty," Rogers said.

"My lord. Mr Barnes." She let her gaze roam Rogers blatantly. "I believe the party is winding down."

"I'm sure Miss Newbury is looking for me," Barnes said, without a hint of subtlety, and dashed away.

Rogers glanced after him, then back at her. "I think I'm going to be scandalized by the sounds coming through my walls tonight." 

She tilted her head and smiled. "Oh, I doubt it. You won't be able to hear them all the way in the royal quarters."

His eyes darkened, and he cleared his throat twice. "Is that so?"

"Yes. Yes it is." She reached out to stroke his hand, the gesture hidden in her skirts. "I have made a great many declarations tonight. Please don't say they were unrequited."

He tangled their fingers, just a little. "They have _always_ been requited."

Her cheeks warmed, but she smiled. "Good. I can't leave with you, but wait by the marble steps near the gallery. I'll meet you there when I'm able."

"I'll wait all night. Being the Royal Mistress and all."

"I won't torture you needlessly," she assured him. He gave her fingers a little squeeze and then parted. She continued her tour of the room and was relieved when he made his exit. To the casual observer it would look like they had said goodnight and nothing more.

She waited for a few more people to leave, saying goodbye to dukes and barons as they passed her. Then she left the last of the stragglers in the capable hands of her staff - sans Newbury who Sharon hoped was well on her way to enjoying the remainder of her evening - and took her leave.

He was waiting on the stairs as she'd asked. She could see him fidgeting as he stood there, nerves or anticipation. Or both. She crossed the hall and slipped her hand into his when she reached him. "Hello."

His smile radiated warmth, and a couple of other things that made her pulse pick up. "Are you mine now?"

"And no one else's." She leaned into his arm. "Until the sun rises."

He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and they started up the stairs. "It's a start."

She guided him through the maze of corridors that was the private royal quarters. Had she not spent time here as a child, running around with her cousins and playing hide and seek, she'd probably have needed a map when she came to live here. Finally, they came to her rooms and she pushed open the heavy wood door.

The lamps were lit and set low, but her maids were absent, as she'd requested. Her bed was turned down and there were roses on the pillow. She wondered if that had been Newbury's idea.

He coughed and cleared his throat. "I was really hoping for a diamond necklace."

"I'm sure I have one in the closet somewhere," she offered, pointing. "But I'm afraid the flowers weren't me."

He strolled into the room, hands clasped behind his back. "Someone trying to provide ambiance?"

"I'm beginning to suspect Newbury has a romantic streak, thought she'd never admit it." Walking to her vanity, she worked her earrings out of her ears. They were large and heavy enough her lobes were sore.

"You looked so beautiful tonight," he said quietly.

Pausing in taking off her bracelet, she looked over at him. The way he was looking at her caused goosebumps to lift along her arms and the back of her neck. This was real. He was in her room and she was beginning to undress. "I'm very nervous," she confessed with a shy smile.

He laughed self-consciously, and ducked his head. "So am I. I haven't ever actually done. . .this."

Her brows arched up. "You haven't?" Wincing at her tone, she tried to back track. "I mean. . . I haven't either. I just expected. . . I assumed men -"

His cheeks tinted pink. "Well, before the whole crazy Fairy Godfather thing, I was skinny and sick and very, very poor. Opportunity never came up."

"Oh." She cleared her throat and gathered up her skirts to cross the room to where he was standing by the curtained window. "Well," she said softly, looking up at him. "We can figure it out together."

"I probably could have afterwards. But I was. . ." he shrugged. "Yours."

She smiled, that one word making her happier than she'd thought possible. "You are most definitely mine." Stroking a hand along his jaw, she went up on her toes to kiss him.

His arms came around her waist, pulling her closer. The kiss went on for a while as they took the time to explore each other. Get to know each other in this new, private world made up of just the two of them. When he lifted his head, he whispered, "Sharon." It was the first time he'd used her given name.

"Steve," she said softly. For a few hours that was all they needed to be. Just Steve and Sharon, figuring out how to show each other how much they cared about each other. She slid her arms under the heavy fabric of his dinner jacket and he helped her slide it off.

He dropped it carelessly to the floor. "I have no idea how to get you out of this dress."

Turning, she presented him her back. "Loosen the laces and you could probably just lift me out of it."

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured, and she felt his fingers working quickly on the laces. He was remarkably deft for someone who claimed to be nervous. He unlaced far more than was necessary, but seemed to enjoy unwrapping her. When he was done, they both peeled the bodice off and pushed the dress down. 

The skirts and petticoats were so voluminous they seemed to stand up on their own. She could have stepped out, but he wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her up and out of the pile of fabric, setting her on her feet in just her drawers, shift and corset. He grinned proudly, and she reached up to yank him close for another kiss. This one was deeper, messier than the first. His hands roamed her body, and the touch seared her skin.

With a few tugs she pulled the hem of his shirt of out his slacks and slid her hands beneath, stroking her fingers over his smooth skin. He broke the kiss for a fraction of a second so he could pull the garment off, then immediately pressed his mouth back to hers. She wanted to look at him, but she wanted to kiss him, so she settled for mapping his body with her hands.

He was a pleasure to touch. Skin smooth and soft with hard muscle beneath. She had imagined what it might be like to touch him this way, to take such liberties. But her fantasies didn't compare to reality. This time she broke the kiss so she could press one to his chest.

She felt his voice rumble in his chest when he said, "It's still strange to have all these muscles."

"I like them," she confessed, tipping her head back to look at him. "But I wish I'd seen you before."

He frowned at her. "Why?"

It was hard to articulate the desire but she did her best. "So you'd never wonder if it was you or the pretty packaging that I love."

His smile was crooked and his heart was in his eyes. "I love you, too. And not for all of this, or anything I got."

Stroking his cheek again, she smiled. "I suppose we both need someone who just sees us and not all the perks that come with us."

He bent his head to kiss her. "And here we are.”


	7. Chapter 7

The kissing intensified and he hauled her up against that glorious chest of his. She found her hands cupping his rear through his soft suit slacks. His fingers were fumbling with the laces of her corset and she reluctantly released his bum to try to help him. Together they got it loosened, and then off. He lifted the fine lawn shift over her head and then she was as bare to him as he was to her. He just stared for a moment, then brought one hand up to cup her breast.

Being out of the corset after all day being cinched in was absolutely glorious. His hand felt even better. The skin was tingling and over sensitive and her nipple tightened from a combination of the cool air and the rough scrape of his fingers.

He grinned at that, and bent to kiss her breast. Then he actually sucked the hard peak into his mouth. Sharon gasped and lifted a hand, digging her fingers into his hair. It felt shockingly good, as if she could feel it through her whole body. She let her head tip back, eyes closing. He framed her waist with his hands and lifted her up against him. He staggered them over to the bed and set her down gently.

Her bed was ridiculously soft and inviting. She heard him groan a little as he sank into it with her. It gave him more access the her bared skin and she was treated with dozens of kisses over her breasts and throat. His hands found the top edge of her drawers. "Can I take these off?"

Ignoring the fresh flutter of nerves she nodded and lifted herself so he could slide them down. Now all she had was her stockings. He untied the garters and carefully rolled them down. "My imaginings did not do you justice," he told her.

"Thank you," she said softly, not really sure how else to respond. Though the knowledge he'd imagined what she might look like this way set off fireworks inside her belly. He seemed to be touching her lightly, everywhere, like he wanted to make sure he had her memorized. It wasn't the sort of thing she expected to be quite so arousing.

She was not, perhaps, quite as innocent as one would expect a pampered royal to be. Aunt Peggy had been rather forthcoming about bedroom matters once she'd deemed Sharon old enough for the conversation. And certainly her little foray into husband hunting had lead to some new information, not all of it entirely welcome. (Sharon had been quite fond of her uncle and would have preferred to keep her memories of him slightly more unsullied.) So while this was the first time someone _else_ had done the arousing, it was not, by any means, the first time she had been so.

She could feel herself growing wet, body getting heavy with building pleasure. It gave her the courage to whisper, "I could show you. What I like. If you wanted."

His eyebrows went up, and the he practically growled, "Yes. Please."

Bolstered by the clearly positive reaction she sat up and nudged him until he did the same, leaning against the massive, carved headboard. Then she shifted to sit between his legs, her back to his chest. The hard bulge of his erection pressing into her back was all but impossible to ignore, but she focused on catching one of his hands and bringing it to her belly.

His hand was much bigger and rougher than hers. She wove her fingers through his and used them to guide his touch, down between her legs where soft, damp hair protected her. Leaning back against his broad chest she spread her legs more so that his hand would fit. She was very wet, the folds of her sex slick and swollen from the things he'd been doing to her.

Being touched by someone else's hands was very different from her own. His were bigger, rougher, and moved differently, even though she guided him. Different but deliciously better. "Like this?" he asked, his breath fanning her cheek.

She nodded, hitching her legs up over his so she could spread wider. He explored her folds thoroughly for bit, then she covered his hand again and guided a finger over the little nub that seemed the source of her pleasure. "Feel that?" she murmured, turning her head to look at him. "That's the best spot."

He stroked right there, trying different motions until one made her gasp in pleasure. She could feel him grin against her skin. "There we go."

Nodding again, frantically, she closed her eyes, tipping her head back against his shoulder. He repeated the stroke again and again, until she was whimpering and arching into his hand. He cupped one breast in his other hand, squeezing a little and sliding his thumb up and down over her nipple. Then he pressed an open-mouthed kiss against her throat as her body began to twist and tighten.

She shook with the force of it, grinding back against him as hot, pulsing pleasure poured through her. She mumbled his name as she calmed, slumping against him. He kissed her shoulder. "Good?"

"Yes," she whispered. "So good." 

"Turn around?" he asked. "I want to kiss you."

She shifted and turned in his lap, kneeling between his legs. He held her again as they kissed, tucked against his chest. Just the two of them in their own little world. He was still wearing his pants, but made no motion to take them off. No motion to rush this or her.

For a while she enjoyed the kissing and the tender way he touched her skin, the way he stroked her hair. When pleasure had built up again, and she was a little concerned he was going to split his nice pants, she leaned back. "I'm a little hazy on the next part," she admitted.

He kissed her nose. "There's the princess in you. Taking care of livestock, and the close quarters poor people live in have given me a pretty clear understanding of the mechanics, at least."

"So you'll walk me through it?" The mechanics, as he'd called them, had sounded vaguely terrifying the one time she'd heard them. Especially considering how much bigger than her he was.

"We'll figure it out together," he told her. He kissed her again. "Stay here, I'm going to get the rest of this off." She shifted so he could climb off the bed, and then watched him undress. She'd never seen a man _completely_ naked before.

No one had ever told her the appropriate term for that part of a man's body. Only that it was private and scandalous and required to go in a rather sensitive part of her anatomy in order for procreation. Peggy had assured her it would feel pleasant and with the right man she'd enjoy herself even more than she had alone. Steve certainly seemed to be interested in her enjoyment, but honestly, all she could think was, "That isn't going to fit."

He climbed back onto the bed. "Babies fit."

"Spoken like someone who has never attended a labor," she muttered. Still, she snuggled into him when he curled an arm around her. "Can I touch it?"

He made a sound half chuckle, half groan. "I wish you would."

Hesitantly, she reached down and stroked her fingertips along the length of it. It was hard and hot, but the skin covering it was velvety soft. He groaned again at the light touch and she allowed curiosity to make her bolder. Wrapping her fingers around it seemed natural and she stroked up and down. He made an appreciative noise, then reached to hold her wrist, showing her what he liked just as she had.

It was harder and quicker than she would have thought, but his reaction was immediate and positive. His mouth took hers in a rough, explicit kiss and she moaned, getting lost in that distraction as he hand kept moving. Then suddenly his hand gripped her wrist tightly. "Stop, stop."

She obeyed, freezing with her fist at the base of him. He was breathing hard, like a wounded animal and she watched in concern as he collected himself. "Too hard?"

"No, no, it was good. Really good. _Too_ good."

"Oh." She pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, slowly uncurling her hand. Working him into such a state had been. . . surprisingly arousing. She kissed his throat. "I think I'm ready to try. When you are," she added, remembering this was a first for him as well.

His arms came around her, and he pulled her into his lap. "Come here."

She wrapped her arms around his neck, slinging a leg over to straddle his thighs. It spread her wide and she shivered a little at the touch of col air on her damp sex. "Like this?"

He reached to touch her, maybe to test how wet she was—which was plenty. "I have it on authority this is the best way to do this."

"Was that authority Mr. Barnes?" she teased. Though come to think of it a blunt conversation with Newbury might have done wonders for this endeavor.

"They sure as shit seem to enjoy themselves," he said. "Sorry," he added, apparently for the language. He pulled her closer, and it took both of their hands to get him properly lined up. "Slow as you need," he said quietly.

Later, she was going to tease him about making this all her responsibility. Right now, the broad tip of. . . him was nudging at the entrance to her body and there really wasn't anything else she could focus on. She pressed down hesitantly and there was a sensation of intense pressure as he breached her. When the sensation reached the point of pain she rocked up to relieve it, breathing deep a moment, before sliding down again.

It took multiple repetitions of the motion to make much progress. On one downward stroke there was a vague popping sensation and a flare of pain and after that it got easier. He stretched her as she got him deeper and she had to shift and readjust her legs a couple times to accommodate him.

She was sweaty and breathing hard, legs trembling with her effort, when she finally slid down to the hilt, sitting on his lap. She leaned forward and rested her forehead against his. He was breathing as hard as he had been before, and she could feel the tension in his muscles. But he was still and steady and _hers_ , just as he'd always been. "Hey," he whispered. "I love you."

She smiled and opened her eyes to meet his gaze. "I love you," she replied, hoping it would ease some of his concern. She felt very full and there was still a bit of an ache, but she thought the worst was over. "I think if you. . . touched me, it would help."

He nodded, and his fingers found her, just as perfectly as they had before. She shuddered, relaxing into the touch. Inner muscles clenched at the growing pleasure, tightening around him. She was startled at how good it felt. Instinctively, her hips started to rock, just a little, in time with his gentle strokes.

There wasn't much space for her to move, with his hand there, and her thighs were getting tired. So she leaned back, putting her hands behind her to brace and started to move that way, strokes longer. From this position she could see everything, his broad, muscled chest. His dark hand between her thighs. Even glimpses of him sliding in and out of her. It felt wanton and forbidden and incredible sexy.

He watched her in return like he wanted to eat her alive. He'd close his eyes and try and get his breathing under control, and then he'd watch her again. The motion of his hand got faster and fast.

Pleasure started to build again and she gave in to, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. Another climax was within her reach and she desperately wanted to know what it felt like with him inside her. She started to move faster, suddenly aware she was moaning helplessly. Steve's hips were starting to move up to meet her and each impact sent shocks through her.

"Please," she whimpered. "Please. I want - I want-"

"That's it, honey, that's it." His voice sounded hoarse and strained, and she could feel him shaking with the effort of holding back. He was waiting for her.

It built and built and just as it started to crest she lurched forward, slinging and arm around his neck and burying him to the hilt. She shook and throbbed with the intensity of it. Deep inside, she felt herself ripple and pulse around him, the sensation magnifying her pleasure. She clung to him, making soft, desperate sounds and it poured through her. He gasped a couple of times and clutched at her, burying his face in her neck to muffle the sound he made. Then she felt shudders pass through him, and heat pour into her.

They clung to each other, both lost in their release. Sharon's passed first and she lifted a hand stroking his hair tenderly and the last of his tremors shook him. He lifted his hips one more time and she gasped at the sensation. Then he slumped back against the headboard and she followed him, held tight to his chest.

"My God," he finally whispered, his breathing still ragged.

"Agreed." She pressed her face into his throat. "Words fail me."

"Told you we'd fit," he murmured.

"Mmm, yes you're very smart."

He rubbed her back. "That was better than advertised." He paused. "You okay?"

Shifting a little, she winced and nuzzled him again. "I think I'm going to spend tomorrow in bed. But it's not too bad."

He lifted her up off of himself very gently. "This is quite the mess."

She eased of the bed, legs stiff and wobbly, and managed to walk over to her wash basin. After cleaning herself up a bit, she brought him his own damp cloth. "Fortunately, there's lots of bed to scoot over to."

"Is it all right if I sleep here?" he asked, adorably hopeful.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," she assured him, climbing back into the bed and drawing the heavy curtains.

He wrapped his arms around her as she snuggled up against him. They lay together in silence for a while. Eventually he said, "I don't want to be your mistress. Or whatever it would be called."

"Consort," she murmured. She'd looked it up. Then she shifted to look at him, suddenly panicked. "Are you. . . is this just tonight, then?"

"No. I'd actually like the _original_ job I first came to audition for."

Her mouth opened and closed a coupled times. "I - what?"

"I'm hoping someday you might be in the market for a husband again."

"Oh." Her breath left her in a great rush. "I'm afraid not." His face fell and she reached out to stroke it. "I've already fallen in love with someone. I'm just waiting for him to get around to proposing."

He looked up, his eyes searching her face. "I've actually been informed that that's not allowed. Since you are the Queen, you must propose."

She sighed. So much for girlhood dreams. She took his hand and kissed the knuckles. "Would you do me the honor of becoming my husband?"

He grinned as wide as she'd ever seen. It was hard to be disappointed when he looked so happy. "I would like nothing better."

Cupping his face in her hands, she kissed him tenderly. "Good," she murmured.

*

The advisors were unanimous, and adamant, that there be a proper mourning period before a wedding occurred. They said it had to be a year. It had already been several months since the Queen's death. Sharon and Steve agreed to the wait at first, then not long after pulled the date with a promise that waiting be worse. Even then, no one could pretend the healthy 8lb baby born six months after the wedding was premature.

They came every two years after that, adorable little blonde cherubs who ran underfoot while their parents attended matters of state. Bucky and Amanda ended up on having theirs in the alternate years, so every year there was a new baby at the palace. 

Steve loved that his children were growing up in the kind of warm, loving—and enormous—family that he'd longed for but never got. 

He lost track of Fop and Meathead, and found he no longer cared what happened to them, good or ill. Herself developed a drinking problem, and when his little brother was eleven he came to live full-time at the palace. 

They employed a fleet of teachers and governesses and nurses to handle the growing flock, but he and Sharon spent as much time as possible with them.

"Grant! Don't go too far. Meggy, Becca keep an eye on him." The girls waved in acknowledgement of Sharon's request before disappearing down the garden path with the toddler. 

Sharon shifted the baby currently attached to her breast so she could attempt to reach her plate. "There's two more dresses we'll never see clean again."

"I think we can afford the fabric," Steve replied. He pushed the plate closer to her.

She scooped up a sandwich and took a huge bite. "This was a good idea," she said after chewing. "We needed an afternoon off."

When she was nursing, Sharon out-ate him. "The trade conference melted my brain. I can't believe something actually made me miss the days when I shoveled manure for no pay."

"Frankly, I don't see much difference," Bucky commented, strolling up to the table with a little girl in frills on his hip. "Horseshit is horseshit."

"Hawsit!" the toddler repeated with a squeal.

"Please don't say that in front of your mother," he muttered.

Steve and Sharon laughed as he took a seat, daughter on his lap. "Amanda is coming, isn't she?" Sharon asked. "I ordered her to take a break."

"She had to make a detour to the bathroom. Again."

Sharon made a sympathetic noise around her second sandwich. Sure enough, a moment later, a very pregnant Amanda in a loose house dress came slowly down the path. "There better be a plate waiting for me," she called out when she got into sight.

"Several, even," Steve called. "Is this what people who aren't running a country do with their summer afternoons?"

"The rich ones," Amanda said, sinking into the chair Bucky held out for her.

"Well, yes. When we were servants this would have been a great day to rearrange the trees in the drive."

The baby on Sharon's breast finished his meal and she rocked him a moment before handing him to Steve so she could readjust her bodice. "I recall many summer days spent in the garden or on a picnic."

"Sometimes you, too, tried to dig up trees," said a voice off to the left. Steve turned and was surprised to find Fury, the Fairy Godfather, standing there. "What?" he said to Steve. "You think I was only godfathering you?"

Sharon leaned over to peer at him. "Who-"

He bowed. "Fury. At your service."

"He's my Fairy Godfather," Steve said.

"Been ten years. Thought I ought to check in." He looked at Bucky and held his hand out towards Amanda. "You're welcome."

"Got it," he said with a grin, leaning over to kiss her cheek. "Much appreciated."

The women were staring at Fury in shock but he seemed mostly unfazed. "I see everything is running smoothly. Any complaints?"

"You can apparently see the future, wouldn't you know?" Steve asked.

"I can see options. What might happen. There's still free will."

"But we did all right?" Bucky asked.

Fury lifted a shoulder. "Of all the options, I'd call this one the best. For you all and the kingdom in general." He glanced to where the children had wandered off. "You're raising some good kings and queens."

"It concerns me that more than one apparently take the throne," Steve said.

Fury waved a hand. "They marry out." He turned to look at them. "How many do you want?" 

The four of them glanced at each other. "Many what?" Sharon ventured.

He waved a hand. "Ankle biters."

"I'm done," Amanda said immediately. "This one is it." She glanced at Bucky. "You don't get any say."

He held up his hands. "Wouldn't even dream of it."

Fury shrugged and snapped his fingers. "Done."

"You're my new favorite person."

Sharon looked at Steve and the baby in his arms. "What do you think?" she said. "One more?"

"I'm not the one who has to do the hard part."

"Yes, but you like being a father and my pregnancies aren't nearly the trial that Amanda's are. Also, your fairy godfather is offering to control the number of babies I have, this is not a normal conversation."

"How about you call me when you're done," Fury said.

"That would work."

"If you'll excuse me," he said. "I'm going to go animate some vegetables for your little ones."

"I'm not going to lie," Amanda said as he strolled away. "I seriously thought yo two were making that up."

"I thought Steve was nuts until I saw the squash carriage," Bucky replied.

"Hey!"

"It is a strange story," Sharon said gently.

On the other side of the garden, little voices squealed with delight. "I'll give you that. But it does have a happy ending."


End file.
